Recognising the handwriting, he glanced swiftly at the signature, and uttering an explosive curse, cast the paper from him. He refused his food,—and even when better provisions were offered him, rejected them. If only we are not divided. But, after all, it will be different. Conscience drove him to this side of the world, to this bed. ’ ‘No, perhaps not,’ Gerald agreed with a smile. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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