“Mr. ” “I don’t know who you are,” Ennison said quietly, “but you are a thundering liar. If you like books and music, we'll get along. "Do you realize that you are several kinds of a damned scoundrel?" he began. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. My heart misgives me. You're rich. Single pearls— Lord knows where they come from!—are always turning up, some of them of fine lustre; but I never set eyes on them.
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