‘And you know, my dear, I do think you must make up your mind to beard this wretched grandfather of yours. This woman knows me—’ throwing the remark at Lucilla ‘—and that I am the daughter of Mary Remenham. Kneebone, Mrs. “Is it your maid?” he asked. “I believe that he would bore me. Why did the beggar hang on down there, when he could have enjoyed all that civilization had to offer? Yes, he would be mighty glad to see McClintock; and the sooner he came the better. And meanwhile, we’ll just have these no doubt potentially lethal little claws of yours out of harm’s way. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. He touched a long-standing sore, and Ann Veronica found herself vainly trying to explain—the inexplicable. Old Lancashire families both.
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