She would always be going to and fro up the Avenue, getting glimpses of Ramage, seeing him in trains. “He’s got good taste, you know. But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. ” The strain in her face was visible as she tried to remember. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘Think it’s worth getting some sort of light and following her down there?’ asked Roding.
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