And if the woman is not a rival, she must be—yes, that must be it. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. Teddy overtook her, a little out of breath, his innocent face flushed, his straw-colored hair disordered. Lady Palsworthy was the widow of a knight who had won his spurs in the wholesale coal trade, she was of good seventeenth-century attorney blood, a county family, and distantly related to Aunt Mollie’s deceased curate. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused.
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