She felt like a dried-up old woman. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Crossing several fields, newly mown, or filled with lines of tedded hay, she arrived, not without great exertion, at the summit of a hill. 207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. “I have no wish,” he said, “to altogether ignore the fact that you are my wife’s sister, and have therefore a certain claim upon me. It was not due to shyness: it was the inherent instinct of the Woman, a protective fear that she must retain some elements of mystery in order to hold the interest of the male.
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