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Confessions of a Well-Meaning Woman of the London press, but in places like Dorchester, Gloucester, Hereford. . . One was known; the papers would announce us among the new arrivals: “Lady Spenworth, Lady Ann Spenworth, Captain Laughton. . .” and so on and so forth. They could not afford to take the slightest risk. If I had yielded to their entreaties and then the car had broken down. . . The King’s Proctor or whoever he is would never believe that it was an accident and that they were truly innocent. There would be the record in the register of the hotel. . . I am thankful to say that we were spared all catastrophes; and I frankly enjoyed the tour, though it was impossible to escape a feeling of conspiracy. The only hitch occurred at the end as we came within thirty miles of Brackenbury. The roads there are not all that could be desired, and I should not have contemplated for a moment the cross-country journey, were it not that I saw an opportunity of healing the unhappy breach with my niece Phyllida. At present she is so terribly and unjustly bitter that there is nothing she will not believe and say. It occurred to me that, if I, the older woman, made the first advance. . . A gracious phrase or two, telling her that I could not pass her home—my old home—with 69