Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. In truth, she had been quite glad to lose the argument about remaining while the bullet was dug out of Jack’s side. “It is about your sister, Lady Ferringhall. You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. " Neither spinster noticed the reluctance in the tones. Excited by the scene, Jack, however, could pay little attention to the good man's discourse, and was lost in a whirl of tumultuous emotions. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms. The silence of Canton at night was sinister, for none could prophesy what form of mob might suddenly boil out. He must fight the thought continually, day in and day out. Not Trodger. He drew a little sigh of relief.
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