“I believe she’s dressing up-stairs—now. John eased off. Pure luck! If the boy had grown a moustache or a beard, a needle in the haystack would have been soft work. A wave of pity went over him—pity for the patient, the girl, and his friend. Do you know, Lady Ferringhall, I am proud that your sister permits me to call myself her friend. All the sombre visions she had been pressing back, fighting out of her thoughts, swarmed over the barrier and crushed her.
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