” He laughed. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. . How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. People running, screaming, hiding. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned.
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