“By-the-bye, Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “do you know that I am a very great admirer of your sister’s? I wonder if she has ever spoken to you of me. I still have a cross stitch she made for me of a little fairy sitting on a daffodil. A granddaughter of mine!’ The idiocy of this notion stuck in his craw and he could think of nothing else for a moment. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror.
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