These daughters! He gnawed his pen and reflected, tore the sheet up, and began again. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. And this though he was evidently passionately in love with her. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. The pistol fell to the floor. “I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally.
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