At her urgent request Sisily had propped her up in bed while she wrote down the address.

Having performed this feat with infinite labour, she dropped back on her pillow, clinging fast to the hand of the child she loved and whose future she had blasted at the command of conscience.
Charles recalled how Sisily had taken that pathetic little scrap of paper from her blouse, kissed it with quivering lips, and handed it to him in silence.

He had deciphered the pencilled scrawl with difficulty.

The name was Catherine Pursill, Charleswood, Surrey.

It remained in his mind for a special reason.