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My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. The arrival of the cart at the end of Field Lane, appeared the signal for an attempt at rescue. He embraced her small body in his arms, kissing her forehead over and over. ‘And with my grandfather Charvill also so very angry, it was not perhaps so very comfortable for my father. "Hold hard," cried he, addressing the waterman; "I'll give the gentleman a lift. “Annabel;” he moaned.
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