As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. They embarked upon an open and declared friendship. At that, the girl jumped up. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. Posts were offered to all who chose to accept them. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. “There are a good many Whites in London. Not like my father. I am sure he would go with you. You will not find it else.
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