Feigning an air of casualness, Lucy asked the obvious. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. Anna rummaged about in her dressingcase, and finally drew out a letter. “You certainly are. The other lay unconscious in a heap. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. Anyhow, now you’ve begun it, there’s nothing to keep us in all this from being the best friends in the world. Stanley, whose family had been by any reckoning inconsiderable—to use the kindliest term. You know not what a wretched guilty thing I am.
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