She had looked up from her seat at the small round table in the centre of the parlour which, together with the wooden armchairs beside the small fireplace, and a sideboard next the single casement, was all the furniture the place afforded. It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. Flinging her back against it, she put her hands out, barring his way. “Poor Lucy!” Cathy exclaimed as she rushed in the door, umbrella sheathed. "And, does any of our bright blood flow in the veins of a ruffianly housebreaker?" cried Trenchard, with a look of bewilderment. I don’t conceal it.
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