“Was I that bad?” He asked. Swiftly he looked back to Melusine and found she had whisked to the window, dragging a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve and hastily blowing her nose. She formed a wild resolution, and, lest she should waver from it, she set about at once to realize it. For a while he threatened her. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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