” He said happily. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. Two hours had come and gone during this tantalizing occupation. God only knows what I have done, or left undone. 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. They did not have to wait long. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations.
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