" "You hear, my son," said the widow eagerly. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She glanced at him and made a dismissive gesture. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. He chuckled. Be so good as to come this way. Annabel, I cannot believe it. Frankly, it is the funniest thing which has ever happened to me in my life. It heralded you, promised you. An old woman took her in. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically.
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