“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Alone; not even the dog to warn her, and Hoddy deep in the island somewhere. But it was not adieu, so she promised her old nurse. The smell of gunpowder was strong in the room. “What a fool I am!” he muttered, standing up on the hearthrug, and leaning his elbows upon the broad mantelpiece.
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