She had denied it with vigor, and here she was! She did not so much exhaust this general question as pass from it to her insoluble individual problem again: “What am I to do?” She wanted first of all to fling the forty pounds back into Ramage’s face. She made herself serenely unaware of his existence, though it may be it was his presence that sent her by the field detour instead of by the direct path up the Avenue. "Perhaps things would have been different if she had lived. We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. I’d rather not go,” she added. But he wrote on. “MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison.
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