I met you here as Lady Ferringhall. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. Not that it would make any difference if he was alive still. I suppose I believe in God. It isn’t just one among a number of important things; for her it is the important thing, and until she knows far more than I know of the facts of life, how is she to undertake it? So please; if you will, forget that you wrote that letter, and forgive this answer. She thought of an old abandoned barn that she could inhabit further downriver, but shrugged off the idea in disdain. Something changed for her. Keep a sharp look out, Austin, and see that we lose no one else.
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