’ ‘Oh, that,’ Gerald said cautiously. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. But that title he would not endure. "Eh-day! what's this?" cried Wood, looking up from beneath his spectacles. Who could say that the girl's father had not once been a fashionable clergyman in the States and that drink had got him and forced him down, step by step, until—to use the child's odd expression—he had come upon the beach? She was cynical, this spinster. Sepulchre's church was covered—so was the tower. "Thank you, sir," said Spurlock, holding out his hand. Coolly and gingerly, she kissed it as it stood at its hard angle from his body. ‘This, as you see, is an identity for your cousin, André Valade.
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