The blast shrieked, as if exulting in its wrathful mission. ” Lady Ferringhall sat with half closed eyes and clenched teeth. One of these, a lady, evidently a confirmed invalid, and attired in deep mourning, reclined upon a sort of couch, or easy chair, set on wheels, with her head supported by cushions, and her feet resting upon a velvet footstool. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. The man’s passion became almost unbearable at the thought of losing her. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly.
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