“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. An enormous Hand that rose up swiftly, blotting out the sky. ‘Woof!’ uttered Trodger, gazing at the lady in some awe. So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. She glanced at him. It was as if the Devil himself had raped and defiled her mother. .
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