Listen, it is I. She had never expected John capable of saying such things, of thinking such macabre ideas. “The fact is—I don’t know why—this takes me by surprise. \"Shhh! He rolled onto his back again, raising himself in alarm. 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. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. Sir John filled his glass with trembling hand. A dissipated, loose-living man. " "Confidentially, I'm assured that he has another. We two just love each other—the real, identical other—all the time.
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