People running, screaming, hiding. It was not a cambric curtain Ruth had drawn across that part of her life: it was of iron. . ” She looked at him wistfully, but with some unwilling doubt in her wrinkled forehead. A few minutes later Sir John left the room. Her thoughts were deflected from Vivie Warren by the peculiar behavior of a middle-aged gentleman in Piccadilly. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica.
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