“My name is Zana,” I answered, reddening, for somehow the subject had become painful to me.
“In England, people have two names,” he replied.
“But I have only one.”
“And that is Zana—nothing more, ha?”
“I have told you.”
“That should be enough,” he muttered, “but it is well to be certain. Where do you live?” he added.
“Down yonder,” I replied, pointing with my whip in the direction of my home.
“In a stone house, cut up with galleries, notched with balconies, buried in trees and smothered in flowers?” he demanded.
“That is my home,” I replied, astonished at the accuracy of his description.
“And how long have you lived there?”