His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. “You’re self-taught, aren’t you, Lucy?” She looked around the table, all eyes upon her. They might applaud, or object, or interfere, but the drama was her very own. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. His relation of the murder of Sir Rowland petrified even his fierce auditors. Satisfied that he had solved his difficulty, he proceeded to his room. 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.
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