” “It is Number 8, Cavendish Square,” she answered simply. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. Lucy stood in front of the piano. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. It is magnificent indeed. I did not even know where to write and thank you. He smiled. For a few minutes, she appeared scarcely sensible of his presence. She looked and felt like a fairy princess. He’s got a past as dark as yours, did you know that?” Lucy was aware of the many circles of Hell that Mike had passed through before getting lucky and being adopted by the Becks. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be. She pursued her interest in the Socialist movement and in the Suffragist agitation in the company of Miss Miniver. He never felt any need to explain himself.
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