“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Clotilde flew into a rage, crying, “How dare you lay claim to my children! I am their mother! This is a Godless house!” She accused. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed. I don’t want you to talk to me now. Eight per cent. Before morning, unless, we can effect an escape, you'll be kidnapped, or murdered, and your disappearance attributed to the negligence of the constable. I want to talk to you, and I must return tomorrow. There would be no mercy in this man. Non.
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