I should like to know how it is concerned with Sir John Ferringhall, and how my presence intervenes. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. He wore a French military undress of the period, with high jack-boots, and a laced hat; and, though his attire indicated no particular rank, he had completely the air of a person of distinction. “Why—it’s—it’s you!” Amazement seemed to dry up the torrents of his speech. Her face reminded him of a delicate unglazed porcelain cup, filled with blond wine. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
Video ID: TW96aWxsYS81LjAgQXBwbGVXZWJLaXQvNTM3LjM2IChLSFRNTCwgbGlrZSBHZWNrbzsgY29tcGF0aWJsZTsgQ2xhdWRlQm90LzEuMDsgK2NsYXVkZWJvdEBhbnRocm9waWMuY29tKSAtIDE4LjIxNy4xODkuMTMzIC0gMDEtMDctMjAyNCAxMDoxMzo1NiAtIDQyMDg5NDQ5Ng==
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