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Mr. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Don't suppose," she added, with a scornful glance at her helpmate, "that I would pay him the compliment of thinking he could possibly be the father of such a boy as you. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. “Yes. She might even forgive him. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. “Go it, miss!” cried one. No man knew whence she had come nor why. Melusine did not attempt to speak.
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