“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. There was a lock, apparently more than a foot wide, strongly plated, and girded to the door with thick iron hoops. ‘Do not speak any more for you give yourself pain,’ said Melusine fearfully. Aware of Quilt Arnold's mode of proceeding, Jack instantly dismounted, and, instead of knocking, opened the door with the pass-key. And here he was, but a hundred yards away, this wastrel who trailed his genius through the mud.
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