He threw her on the bed. “What night will you dine and go to the theatre with me?—and how about Hurlingham on Saturday?” Anna shook her head. 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. Shame and electricity coursed through her veins, flowing directly from him in a flash flood. Hold your hand for a moment. Observe it—a blue-serge coat.
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