“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. So good an opportunity may never occur again. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. “Look at our clothes,” she exclaimed, “and besides, the funny little proprietor has gone down himself to help it along. I have a weapon—a knife—and if you attempt to open the door, will plunge it to my heart. ” The corners of her lips rose along with her eyebrows.
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