“Dear John,” she whispered. It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. " The little girl's countenance fell. “You are not going out—this evening, I trust,” that lady asked, a trifle dismayed. She held out her arms to him and smiled. But let the horses be in readiness. Ramage,” she said, sharply, “I have to make it plain to you.
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