’ Melusine hit lightly at his chest. He had nothing to guide him; for though the torches were blazing ruddily below, their gleam fell only on the side of the building. “Don’t be too sure of that,” she answered enigmatically. It must have cut him. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked.
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