“The young lady, I presume, told you that her name was Anna,” he remarked. . It was 1582. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. “Lucy, that’s horrible. Swiftly she ran her hands over the carvings, trying to find the lever to the secret panel again. ’ Quick anger flared, surpassing the fluttering hope. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Like the parrot, she could memorize the lines, but she could not understand them. She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. Outside the door he turned and stared at the panels. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. You would not have believed me, I know well.
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