It was perfectly logical. Scissors with which to cut her hair, just in case. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. “Yes. You’d better not have all the money on you; you had better open a small account in the postoffice and draw it out a fiver at a time. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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