“There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Indeed, she did not want to think of him as loving her. "I don't think he would," acquiesced the carpenter. “You had only to ask——” “Do you think,” Anna interrupted, with a note of passion trembling also in her tone, “that I would have taken alms from Sir John, the man to whom I had lied for your sake. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour.
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