“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. E. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. She said it audibly, having learned long since that an audible prayer was a concentrated one. “Is that not rather a profitless speculation, my friend?” He seemed deaf to her interruption. It had her raven locks, her pouting lips.
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