To Ruth the thought of Hartford no longer projected upon her vision a city of spires and houses and tree-lined streets. She forbade him to escape to his workshop in the basement during those times, denying him his one and only hobby. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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