“I wouldn’t. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. Cathy reached out and touched Lucy’s chin with her two fingers, gently commanding her attention. ‘That is what she wants, is it?’ ‘Do you blame her?’ he said stiffly. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Or shall I ask Colonel Anson for a few hints?” “For Heaven’s sake no,” she declared. "Is it you?" "It is," replied Sheppard, as he untied the cords. I’ll wait my whole life!” He cried. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. A hollow plunge, echoed and re-echoed by the walls, marked his descent into the water. Some one was standing beside him.
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