“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. His hand flew across the paper. " "I hope such a thing never will happen again, my dear," observed Wood, mildly, "but, when it does, it will be time to consider what course we ought to pursue. It was ended. There are way-stations—even terminals.
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