That did not sound like the name the young man had offered in the tower of the water-clock. "The poor things!" The manager laughed. “You need a reason. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. A tall, clean-shaven man came out and walked rapidly through the room, exchanging greetings right and left, but evidently anxious to avoid being detained. She rose and attacked Lucy, kicking her with the grafted leg that was too big for her body. ‘As for what to do, I wonder if young Charvill would be worth a visit. Any financial return was inconsiderable against the promise of this psychological treat. She wished she had not stood up.
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