Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. But he wrote on. The farmer was a widow who was slightly famous around town for his prize cows and slightly more famous for his good looks. Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. The Disguise 261 VI. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. . And most of the others she had met had, she felt, the same steadfastness. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. “Lord!” she said. “It is just a look.
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