They turned off at Glen Grove, a sleepy town of less than two hundred. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'. " "My writing! no such thing!" ejaculated the lady, casting a look of alarm at the woollen-draper. They shouted to her from the wings to come off. What was yet more worthy of note was, that the widow's countenance had an air of refinement about it, of which it was utterly destitute before, and which seemed to intimate that her true position in society was far above that wherein accident had placed her.
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