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. ‘I am not a murderer. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Child!” he cried. . “Dear me! I wonder what I ought to do. And I want you for myself—for my wife.
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