Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Suddenly he came to a stop, his mouth agape. Ann Veronica hesitated with a question that had leaped up in her mind, and that she felt was cruel. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “I think she is the perpetrator behind several attacks, not just the clothes stealing. That a longing of hers should be realized in this strange fashion was difficult to believe: it vaguely suggested something of a trap. Anna sprang to her feet and made for the dressing-room door. No one is safe. ‘Who’d believe me? And I’d have to tell my part in it all, too. The curtain before one mystery was torn aside, and she saw in reality what lay behind the impulse that had led her into the young man's room. " "And you must have risked much to obtain it, my love.
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