I shook my head.
“Probably not; unless you were at church yesterday,” I said.
“Then I certainly have not, for I do not attend church,” she answered. “But you don’t live in church, do you?”
I laughed.
“Oh, no; but we have only been here a week or so,” I told her. “My name is Kate Ffolliot. I am the daughter of the new vicar, or, rather, curate-in-charge.”
Once more the hall was filled with white light.
There was a moment’s breathless silence, and then the thunder came crashing over our heads. When it was over she was leaning forward with her face buried in her hands. She did not look up immediately.
“The thunder is awful!” I remarked. “I never heard it more directly overhead. I am afraid it is making you uncomfortable, is it not?”
She did not move her hands or answer me. I rose to my feet, frightened.