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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. “How gratified she must have been! If only I had known I would have made an effort to get home in time for dinner. And then you go—and half throttle me. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. “Too greasy for me.
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