’ Chapter Six Creeping along the dark narrow passage, with lantern held well ahead to keep her step steady on the uneven stones—and to warn her of the advent of rats— Melusine kept her long petticoats fastidiously clear of the dirt with an efficient hand, a habit she had learned in the convent. She had taken care he should have this momentous talk with her on a garden-seat commanded by the windows of the house. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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