“Who are you?” She asked innocently. A carpenter's daughter is no fit match for a peer of France. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand. 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. ‘Mary was indeed naïve, but there I should say the similarity ends.
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