“Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. “But your sister,” he said. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. The girl was flushed with excitement, bright-eyed, and braced for a struggle; her aunt had never seen her looking so fine or so pretty. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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