She was lovely, painted like the porcelain doll he had always wanted her to be. ” He spoke loudly. . My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. As though accidentally she swept her skirts from a chair close drawn to her own. “Well,” she said, “good-night, father. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers.
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