It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress. “Stupid cow. ‘It is you who is the fool,’ she threw at him, whipping round again. He singled out my poor husband from a crowd of other felons; and you know how right he was in that case, Sir. He had found her by the same agency her father had: native talk, which flew from isle to isle as fast as proas could carry it. She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially.
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