If only he had known it, sympathy was almost entirely with him. And in its way it was very well. “Why?” “I still love you. I did it in self-defence. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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