Capes sat down in the armchair beside her. ” “But why?” “He’s married—and, I believe, living separated from his wife. 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. Though he never seen so much of Miss Mary as I did. The uproar was tremendous—men yelling— dogs barking,—but above all was heard the stentorian voice of Jonathan, urging them on. I barely prevailed sometimes, but in the end, my wits were faster than their steel.
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