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Wood had prevented him from paying much attention to the previous scene. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Courtlaw sat with folded arms. 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. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. But not a word to him of Lady Trafford's absence—mind that.

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This video was uploaded to practical-tool.shop on 28-05-2024 18:41:48

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