“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet. ” Inwardly, she laughed at the idea of him trying to beat on her, flailing, his arms akimbo. She could feel her body rebel against her actions, convulsing, so she forced herself to think of her mother in Heaven, her mother's beautiful face, the sun dancing across the rivers of her home. “Well!” she declared good-humouredly.
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