There was a tearing sound as the canvas gave way, and the precious portrait ripped apart as the top of the Frenchman’s head came through it. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. “Don’t tell anyone I told you this. See? Nothing really. “I wonder what he will do?” She tried to imagine situations that might arise out of Ramage’s antagonism, for he had been so bitter and savage that she could not believe that he would leave things as they were. ‘Point it at me.
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