He took his seat at the table, but leaned forward to address her. Anna sprang lightly away across the street. Her companion was a portly handsome man, also dressed in a full suit of the deepest mourning, with the finest of lace at his bosom and wrists, and a sword in a black sheath by his side. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Their very furniture had mysteriously a high-browed quality, and Mr. But Miss Mary and me—’ Melusine looked up as the woman broke off again.
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