She took it up in her many-ringed hands and read it judicially. “They mould one insensibly. It is useless to talk. 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. Unlocking it, he entered the chamber, which by no means belied its external appearance. When the paroxysm passed, he was forced to lean against the window-jamb for support.
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