He’s a prig to the finger-tips, is Sir John—doesn’t know what an artist is. Sit down, I command you. " "Iss, missis," grinned the black. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. She felt sticky and ashamed when he dropped her off a block away from the McCloskey house as she had requested. . ” Sir John clutched at the table with both hands.
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