“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. His own peculiar genius—a miracle key to the hidden things in men's souls—had given him this immediate and astonishing illumination. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. “I’ve been looking out for you,” he said.
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