“Don’t fence with me,” Anna cried fiercely. ‘You won’t get a thing out of her. But, answer me. ” She shrugged her shoulders and led him towards a small recess. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared.
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