“Yes,” said Aunt Phyllis.
“Do you know much about her?”
“Very little. Her name was Debenham. Fanny Debenham.”
“Was she pretty?”
“I never saw her. It was Dolly—Peter’s mother—who went to her....”
“So that’s what I am,” said Joan, after a long pause.
“Only we love you. What does it matter? Dear Joan of my heart,” and Aunt Phyllis slipped her arm about the girl’s shoulder.
But Joan stood stiff and intent, not answering her caress.
“I knew—in a way,” she said.
The thought that consumed her insisted upon utterance. “So I’m not Peter’s half-sister,” she said.