CHAPTER XIX. "What has put it into your head that your son yet lives?" he asked. ” Lady Ferringhall was conscious of some relief. Anna, my love, you cannot have forgotten so soon. She addressed him in a tone of puzzlement. His French is better than mine, so he knew exactly what he was handling. On the floor was a handkerchief, a little morsel of lace. The chair had extension arms over which a man might comfortably dangle his legs. There was no one at home, and I was coming away when I saw that the door was open. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent.
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