“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. The latter looked very pale, either from the effect of his wound, which was not yet entirely healed, or from suppressed emotion,—partly, perhaps, from both causes,—and wore his left arm in a sling. Following this direction, he opened a gate, and struck into one of the most beautiful green lanes imaginable; which, after various windings, conducted him into a more frequented road, and eventually brought him to the place he sought. ” “Cooped up!” he cried. "If any one's to blame, it's me. There are men in the Lowndean who laugh at him—simply laugh at him.
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