My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Chapter Eight For an instant in the silence that followed, shocked into immobility, Melusine stared in horror at the body lying there so still. Much more temperate; the discreet and joyless love of a virtuous, reluctant, condescending wife. She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. Then Mr.
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