"He is," returned Quilt, significantly. The little matter of an accent may be misleading, I grant you, but —’ He was interrupted, and with impatience. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. Her loneliness was consuming, Lucia. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. He spent the evening telling her stories of Greece as she sat in front of a roaring fire. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. I'll have to put some pep into the game— American pep.
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