The perspiration stood out upon his forehead. But she made no answer. He continued tenderly, almost affectionately. Perhaps because I don’t know. ” Presently, as if for comparison with her father’s letter, she got out Ramage’s check from the box that contained her papers. The dog was, in a sense, a gift of the gods. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Twelve years ago! It is an awful retrospect. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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