Hitherto, no visiters had been permitted to see him. He may die. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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