"Wretch!" cried Jack. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. That for the men lay near the Lodge, with which it was connected by a dark passage. "Get up, then," said Jack, freeing his foot from the stirrup. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Practically it was most of the chief interests in life that she proposed to settle in this pedestrian meditation.
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