He found his youngest daughter intrusive in his thoughts all through the morning, and still more so in the afternoon. Hang the wench! Roding was right. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. Who was he to tread on her dreams? She had heroworshipped an unscrupulous adventurer, who had not hesitated to impose on her youth and her ignorance. He seemed safe from the sickness, having been surrounded by the dying, he had witnessed the carnage up close and yet his health still prevailed. There was the world besides, looming darker and larger. I am Lucilla Froxfield, you must know.
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