“Yes. ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. Here they would be having lunch. Manning at last broke down by coming directly at her as she talked with the vicar’s aunt about some of the details of the alleged smell of the new church lamps. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. How can I tell you all I feel? I love you beyond measure.
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