His brows drew a little nearer together. He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He lowered his voice a little and leaned over towards her. A week later the manuscript was polished and typewritten, ready for the test. Such was the condition of his mind that the danger exhilarated rather than depressed him. He was astonished.
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