How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud.
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