She stared at his pleading face. \"Why should they care that I want to go to college when they are so busy interviewing architects about adding on to our house, making it bigger?\" Lucy looked at her, concerned. . My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Gerald? But could he be here so quickly? She hastily dabbed at her eyes, thankful for the darkness that she saw had come on outside unnoticed, dimming the room. The expression, however, which would chiefly have interested a beholder, was that of settled and profound melancholy. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told.
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