He sat alone in his brother’s old car night after night that summer, staring blankly at the red sky beyond the abandoned farmhouse where she had once shown him her secrets. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. ” For some seconds he had remained quite still. As usual, however, on the occasion of any great calamity, a crowd was scouring the streets, whose sole object was plunder. The ruffian caught hold of her hair, and held her fast.
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