At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. A live man. She stuffed her violin in its case and rushed into the hallway towards John, who stood outside of 118 with his arms crossed. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “Hello, John.
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