With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. ‘The general himself?’ ‘How shall I get my inheritance if the general will believe that pig?’ ‘Do wish you wouldn’t keep on calling him a pig,’ Martha begged. Sheppard was enabled to take possession of the premises. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her.
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