"Rowland," said Lady Trafford, regarding him with a look of indescribable anxiety, "you have assured me that I shall behold my son. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. “Does he ever ask about me?” She asked, feeling like a cuckolded old maid. The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account.
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