I was worried about Cordelia Dalton and had made a point of calling on her every few days since her fiancé’s death. The Daltons’ house was quiet and dark when I arrived—too many closed velvet curtains—and a servant set off to fetch Cordelia from her bedroom. The poor girl was like a prisoner. When she entered the gloomy sitting room, I hardly recognized her. Her dress hung on her—she must have lost a stone in the past weeks—and her face, gaunt and dull, looked ten years older than when I’d seen her last. “Cordelia!” I could not help leaping up and embracing her. “How are you managing?” She didn’t say anything, but twisted and twisted her black-hemmed handkerchief. “Has something happened?” “No. No. Not a thing.” She twisted harder. “Would you like tea? Ivy was just here, but she didn’t want any. She’d be sorry to have missed you.” “I don’t require any tea, thank you,” I said. I could see she was biting the inside of her cheek. “Are you quite sure nothing else has happened?
