’ ‘Me, miss?’ uttered Mrs Ibstock doubtfully. Captain Hilary Roding and his inamorata, Miss Lucilla Froxfield. Anna raised her eyes. A dark mass of wreckage, over which hung a slight mist of vapour, lay half in the ditch, half across the hedge, close under a tree from the trunk of which the bark had been torn and stripped. ‘Yes, miss. She ran down alleyways and between buildings, faster than an Olympian, until she could hear his voice no more. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it.
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