“Good-bye, John,” she said simply. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. Mike was showing his territorial instincts, brought out by the fact that he was drunk. A sophisticated woman would have translated the tone as a caress. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE.
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