Her first impulse was to fly to the window; and she was about to pass through it, at the risk of sharing the fate of the unfortunate lady, when her arm was grasped by some one in the act of ascending the ladder from without. And before Kneebone could draw his sword, he felled him to the ground with the iron bar. “Why shouldn’t one face the facts of one’s self?” She stood up. Love is a great thing, and happiness a joy. You will wonder why he did not hold the pearls until Father returned. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. There is a place—This isn’t the place. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Abruptly she desisted, recoiled, and turned and fled up-stairs. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase.
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