“It’s okay, Michelle. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. Wood. A thickly-set, sandy young man, with an unwholesome complexion and grease-smooth hair, had entered the room. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. He glanced at his watch. I have an idea that you are in some sort of trouble.
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