She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. That was an admission all right. I can’t tell anyone certain things about my life. Only your pa knew as how I were the one as saw to you at the wet-nurse’s cottage, and he got a-hold of me and made me bring him to you. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. ‘Jacques!’ He stopped, but he did not turn. It's two hundred pounds.
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