A delicate flush of colour streamed into her cheeks. “Okay. It was a huge stone placed there by some workmen occupied in repairing the structure. ‘But it is entirely myself,’ she exclaimed aloud. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter. No one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. They crossed the Channel in sunshine and a breeze that just ruffled the sea to glittering scales of silver. Lucy looked about confusedly. .
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