‘I have not asked for this trouble from anyone. And who is the man you are not allowed to marry? Valade, perhaps?’ ‘Dieu du ciel,’ exclaimed the girl, jumping up. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. Only one thing emerged with any reasonable clarity in her mind at once, and that was that unless she was saved from drowning by an unmarried man, in which case the ceremony is unavoidable, or totally destitute of under-clothing, and so driven to get a trousseau, in which hardship a trousseau would certainly be “ripping,” marriage was an experience to be strenuously evaded. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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