He could scarcely blame her. You’re of age— you’re of age. ‘Is that why you allowed me in, ma’am?’ A dimple appeared in the faded cheek. And so gentle as the poor creature is, when she's not in her wild fits—it would melt a heart of stone to see her. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Possessed, at one time, of a share in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand pounds.
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