How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow. Ann Veronica’s tense nerves started, and she stood still with her eyes upon him, wondering what it might be that impended. You know you do, Annabel. You shall tell me if I am wrong.
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