God knows how you did it. Only she sent me a message, and together we found a cottage for her to stay at. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. 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. The thousand voices which a few moments before had been so clamorous were now hushed.
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