CHAPTER XVElizabeth Leigh woke up in the morning after she had talked to Grenville and Rockingham at Furnival’s Court and stretched herself luxuriously in bed, and then wondered why she had awoken with such a sense of disquiet.
Memory awoke, too, and she remembered the grim story of Bruce Attleton’s death, and shivered. Sitting with her hands round her knees, bare-armed, and childish-looking, with her short red curls rumpled up all over her head, she wished that the memory could be relegated to the realm of nightmare.
“What ought I to do?” she asked herself. “I know Sybilla hates me, really, and I hate her, but I can’t just behave as though nothing’s happened. I shall have to go to see her and say I’m sorry, and watch her crying beautifully, when I know she doesn’t care a blue hoot. Oh,
