Breakfast was laid for one, a dish of fruit and a shining coffee equipage. “I had to. Listening on the dimlit landing, he saw Roding’s face muscles tighten. In truth, she would quite like to have him rescue her. Here's your health in a bumper, and wishing you a better husband than your first. 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.
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