“If you are cursed, I will be cursed,” I said, gazing straight at her, and then I sat down again.
The sobbing gradually ceased. She dried her eyes.
“He is dead,” she said shortly.
I made no response; I had none to make.
“You do not say anything,” she murmured.
“I am sorry. Sir Cyril was the right sort.”
“He was my father,” she said.
“Your father!” I repeated. No revelation could have more profoundly astonished me.
“Yes,” she firmly repeated.
We both paused.