The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. Do not let her think worse of me than I deserve,—or even so ill. . She rose to the fire to stoke it. I used to go by the name Lucy Iovelli, which was my natural father’s surname. ‘Must be still downstairs. She decided to call in the help of Teddy Widgett, or, failing him, of one of his sisters.
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