She indicated the captain who had retired behind the sofa. His head was small and bullet-shaped, and he did not wear a wig, but had his sleek black hair cut off closely round his temples. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood.
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