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’ ‘No, and I do not wish to do so,’ Melusine pointed out. "Leave me, Sir; I insist. It was your sister who married Sir John Ferringhall the other day, wasn’t it?” Anna nodded. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. “I’m fine,” she said softly. She was a schizophrenic, got locked up later in some sort of state mental ward. Almost at once she had comprehended that she was expected to write down her name and address, which she did, in slanting cobwebby lettering, perhaps a trifle laboriously.
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