“I wish you and I had drunk that love potion,” he said. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. " "That is what I wanted to know," said Ruth gravely. “His back was towards me,” Anna said. “It is not possible,” he exclaimed. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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