"A thousand dollars in British pounds!… A thousand dollars for four short stories!" The tan on Spurlock's face lightened. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. It consisted of a full-dress coat of brown flowered velvet, laced with silver; a waistcoat of white satin, likewise richly embroidered; shoes with red heels, and large diamond buckles; pearlcoloured silk stockings with gold clocks; a muslin cravat, or steen-kirk, as it was termed, edged with the fine point lace; ruffles of the same material, and so ample as almost to hide the tips of his fingers; and a silver-hilted sword. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. Long ago. ‘Sapristi,’ he shouted angrily. Of his own certain knowledge he could tell them that. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. “It was my sister Anna.
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