He thought, too, of the fretful invalid who lay in the next room to his, whose money had created his business and made his position in the world. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The whole place had come to life, the magic seeped out of the walls. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger. She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas.
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