‘So, you’re Dr Allen’s daughter,’ he repeated. ‘Yes, I am.' The door opened. A servant entered, a woman. An old woman, white-haired, raw-handed, ruddy streaks in her face from the cold and the kitchen fire, she looked at them quickly and curtsied. ‘Ah, Mrs Yates.’ Mrs Yates nodded her head slowly, looking across at her master and his young female guest. Hannah, shamed, stared down at her knees, plucked her skirt straight with brisk, matter-of-fact fingers, attempting an unconcerned composure.... read more
