Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. “Shhh. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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