” She felt humiliated. 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. Winter came: rainy, damp, and savage. The spirit I drink may be poison,—it may kill me,—perhaps it is killing me:—but so would hunger, cold, misery,—so would my own thoughts. A bobbing lantern, crossing the bridge—for she had not drawn the curtain—attracted her attention. I've a shrewd guess where he's taken refuge; but I'll ferret him out. "Bring him back with you.
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