I don’t mean I’m not a good woman—I mean that I’m not a GOOD woman. That is I saw her. There was no one to be seen. 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. Now, I know you can restore him to his rights, if you choose. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. He did not so much cut into this conversation as loom over it, for he was a tall, if rather studiously stooping, man.
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