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. I’m sorry. It was possible that his first impressions had not been correct. If so I shall have to leave. “Well, you have thought it over?” he said, sitting down beside her. The sun was setting in spectacular multicolored streams beyond Whitefield Park. ‘I am nine-and-twenty,’ he answered.
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