Part 4 MY DEAR VEE, he wrote. ” She felt his heart warming the small room like a radiator. 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 was silent. I always told you some accident would happen. Will you?” She thought, and it seemed to him she had never looked so self-disciplined and deliberate and beautiful. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. ‘And I do understand. It should be the happiest day of your life, and I would not detract from its happiness by letting you remember for a moment that there are others to whom your inevitable decision must bring some pain. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. ” “Apart from the fact of his acquaintance with Anna—Annabel,” Lady Ferringhall said quickly, “may I ask if you have any other objection to Mr.
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