You must forgive the poet’s license I take. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. \" Lucy felt her face go hot, but at the same time raised her eyebrows, relaying a tacit acknowledgement of her own distressed appearance. Leonardo had not taught her to do so. Now I am sorry to cross you in anything you have set your heart upon, but I regret to say—” “H’m,” he reflected, and crossed out the last four words. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. " "And so Sir Rowland murdered his friend," remarked Wood.
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