“Your name and address in his pocket was no delusion,” he said sharply. “Don’t you know, child, that this is torture for me? What in God’s name more can you have to tell me?” Her face had become almost like a marble image. “By-the-bye,” he said, presently, “your sister was married to old Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t she? I saw the notice in the papers. There was hope for me then. He drew her close up to him with a strong, steady pull. With his tongue lolling and his flea-bitten stump wagging apologetically, he glanced from face to face to see if there was any forgiveness visible. Denis, did you say? I hope that no one of our friends has met with an accident.
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