He was her husband. He was remorseless, plausible. She
dared not write freely. She had no witnesses to call upon. She had
discovered that he had planned with composed steadiness that misleading
impressions should be given to servants and village people. When the
Brents returned to the vicarage, she had observed, with terror, that for
some reason they stiffened, and looked askance when the Ffolliotts were
mentioned.
"I am afraid, Lady Anstruthers, that Mr. Ffolliott was a great mistake,"
Mrs. Brent said once.
Lady Anstruthers had not dared to ask any questions. She had felt the
awkward colour rising in her face and had known that she looked guilty.
But if she had protested against the injustice of the remark, Sir
Nigel would have heard of her words before the day had passed, and she
shuddered to think of the result. He had by that time reached the point
of referring to Ffolliott with sneering lightness, as "Your lover."
"Do you defend your lover to me," he had said on one occasion, when she
had entered a timid protest. And her white face and wild helpless eyes
had been such evidence as to the effect the word had produced, that he
had seen the expediency of making a point of using it.
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