“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. He looked at his friend. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. He pictured himself visiting the girl in this shabby little home of her aunt’s—she had told him that it was shabby—and he recalled that delicious little smile with which she would surely greet him, a smile which seemed to be a matter of the eyes as well as the lips.
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