“I must take them,” she said, to help herself over her own incredulity. ” Anna promptly alighted with the letter in her hand. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. You don’t understand. “I can’t imagine what has come over you,” said her aunt. 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.
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