“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. CHAPTER XXII. In Singapore that had been her only dissipation: a dozen pairs of silk stockings. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. “I heard the clock strike as I crossed the square,” she answered. ‘It does not matter, Jacques. I want to stand between you and all the force and vileness of the world. I’m going to that stupid party at the Vorsack’s to get to the bottom of it.
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