“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Then she dropped the curtain and stepped back into the room. She would end alone. ’ ‘But you mind that I say I do not trust you. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery. I suppose I was a little idiotic—I don’t think we either of us mentioned the future, but it was arranged that I should go the next afternoon and have tea with her. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. Here's his health likewise. His suspicions at first fell upon you.
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