’ ‘Don’t start arguing again, for God’s sake,’ snapped Roding irritably, dragging out his own large pocket-handkerchief. "Sir Rowland is your uncle—he will be your guardian—he will protect you. ” “For a little time,” she answered. He did not pocket it, but sat hefting it lightly from hand to hand, watching the girl thoughtfully. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. Lost in thought, Lucy barely heard Mrs. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed.
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