" "Only as a brother?" persisted Kneebone. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. Read it, and you'll find that your unfortunate uncle, Sir Rowland, surrenders to you all the estates in Lancashire. She was chic, distinguished, unusual. It was horrible, but what could she do? She meant to live her own life, and he meant, with contempt and insults, to prevent her. "Were it not for that, he would indeed be a blessing and a comfort to me. ‘Too late by the time I realised to what a dunderhead I’d pledged my friendship.
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