I can’t love you. “Ann Veronica,” he said. “Can’t you believe me? I am Meysey Hill. A single false step might have precipitated him into the street; or, if he had trodden upon an unsound part of the roof, he must have fallen through it. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. "And now," she added, with somewhat more composure, "leave me, dear friends, I entreat, for a few minutes to collect my scattered thoughts—to prepare myself for what I have to go through—to pray for my son. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine.
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