“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. For that my father so stupide was in love with this Suzanne Valade, is it not?’ ‘Well, miss,’ temporised Mrs Ibstock, ‘we didn’t rightly know that then. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. The morning of Monday the 16th of November 1724 at length dawned. For the first time he seemed to wonder what it might be that she had to confess. "Ruth?" he called. "You'll feel better after it. What I said about your brat was all stuff. And, with a glance of malignant exultation, he quitted the vault, and locked the door.
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