” She marked an hotel that seemed neither opulent nor odd in a little side street opening on the Embankment, made up her mind with an effort, and, returning by Hungerford Bridge to Waterloo, took a cab to this chosen refuge with her two pieces of luggage. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘I want a word with you, my lad.
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