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At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. No sooner had Trenchard crossed the threshold than a fierce barking was heard at the farther extremity of the passage, and, the next moment, a couple of mastiffs of the largest size rushed furiously towards him. F. I’ll be ready in a moment.
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