“I told you I did not love you. " "Nor any one else in his senses," rejoined Wood, with a laugh. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Hot coffee and cakes were sent in to them in the morning by some intelligent sympathizer, or she would have starved all day. It must be somewhere hereabouts.
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