’ ‘Fiddle,’ scoffed Miss Froxfield. He continued thoughtfully. “I am. ’ Fury was in her face. There is only Gerald to see me, after all. “I was born there. 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. Their expression was so amiable, that it would have redeemed a countenance a thousand times plainer than hers.
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