He had reacted by laughing at her, informing her coolly that she was naïve in many things. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. 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. He looked at her guiltily. I wonder if I should have locked you up if I’d been your father. ‘For my part, I am in no hurry to end this exciting little adventure. “Not a bit.
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