“I want to speak to you. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. ‘Certainly you are imbecile. She softened her tone and scrambled for the right words. Kneebone, Mrs. Mother had met with him two years before to begin the process of finding a match. ‘You were his daughter. And the Duke, too—I heard him say that a married secretary would be worse than useless to him. The quiet encounter and home-coming Ann Veronica and she had contemplated was entirely disorganized by this misadventure; there were no adequate explanations, and after they had settled things at Ann Veronica’s lodgings, they reached home in the early afternoon estranged and depressed, with headaches and the trumpet voice of the indomitable Kitty Brett still ringing in their ears. Ann Veronica sat back with a sigh of relief. “Turned out to be an impostor, too. "Your son," answered the boy.
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