“That,” he said, grimly, with his hand on the doorhandle, “must be your own affair, unless you choose to live at Morningside Park. ‘Will you—what was it?—“blow off his head”?’ Melusine eyed her, a little uncertain. But he tells them that I am a spy. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ’ The woman shrugged helpless shoulders, looking to her husband.
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