Sir John stood upon the threshold. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce. “The doctor has asked me to give them my reasons—for shooting myself. He was an imaginative young man. You are right. I wonder whether you would mind, Lady Ferringhall,” he went on, with a sudden glance at her, “if I tell you that you yourself remind me a great deal more of what she was like then, except of course that your complexion and colouring are altogether different. He found that the skiff had been dashed against one of the buttresses of the bridge. ‘I didn’t mean to hurt you so badly,’ he said, still meeting her eyes, unaware that his hold about her hand had tightened a little. . It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. They rose as she approached.
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