She went down, feeling rather than seeing the way. Then he stood up and repeated it again. The perception of him flooded her being. ‘I knew it. She made up her mind in the train home that it should be a decisive crisis. Her stifled misery had betrayed her. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. Lucy spoke once they had turned the corner. But it's an odd case. For a long time neither spoke again. It was on the night of the Great Storm that I found him.
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