“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. “I shall have to go through the building. “Now replace the stone, my child. ‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. Light the lantern.
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