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A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Will you forgive me—if I say no more?” She looked at him with perplexed, earnest eyes. Kneebone, Mrs. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice.
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