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My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. What a frightened fool he was! If he could not remember her name, it was equally possible that already she had forgotten his. He has no imagination, no real generosity. . She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced. Strangers look in and long, and neighbours are moved to envy. A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. ” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. "I must see him to-night. You won't refuse me, I'm sure; so no more need be said about the matter.

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