” She laughed. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. The fibre of his soul had to be tested, queerly, to make him worthy of you.
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