“It was poison—why not?” she answered. As if it were she, and not Melusine, who had been hurt by the imposters. I am Jonathan Wild. Rank ingratitude, I call it. I wonder why on earth the curtains are drawn. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid.
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