“Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. The horror of those few minutes was still with her. He recalled with exasperating perplexity her clear, matter-of-fact tone as she talked about love-making being unconvincing. His voice had broken. "Oh, lud! what's that?" exclaimed a female voice, from an adjoining room. "Them's catchpoles, I s'pose, Sir, arter the gemman with a writ?" he observed. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. He moved slightly, and she went on, with a slight catching of her breath: “It’s a bother and disturbance, but you see—” She had to go through with it now, because she could think of nothing but her preconceived words.
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