"There's the house," said Jack, pointing to a pretty cottage, the small wooden porch of which was covered with roses and creepers, with a little trim garden in front of it. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. There was no way to warn her of his presence without startling her. ‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. That window there…. Unless he deserts the girl, he won't be so hard to find as formerly.
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