Caution forced her to speak calmly. You poor man, what have you been doing to yourself?” “Nothing except travelling all night,” he answered. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. His voice now had lost its ironies. That he was immolating Ruth on the altar of his conscience never broke in upon his thought for consideration. Every now and then she fingered an ornament, moved a piece of furniture, or rearranged some draperies.
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