“You are afraid,” she said, “that the young man who thinks that he is my husband has upset me. 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. He felt his heart beat faster and faster—his self-restraint slipping away. Easy enough. But we get over it. Cathy stood in the bedroom hallway in her faded blue bathrobe.
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