“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. “I am going,” she said grimly, with three hairpins in her mouth. So I fear there's little chance of any one getting it. Everything in his favour—the luck of the gods! The only white men were miles down the coast. “But where are you going? Lucy, you’re safe here. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice. I have always been lonely.
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