” She stood up and held her arms toward him. One with the appearance of a bald little gnome yawned agonizingly. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. His face was downcast. The manager stared at the empty doorway for a space, shrugged, and returned to his ledgers. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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