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“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. He cherished her. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. But through the fault of that pig, who dared to call himself Valade and masquerade in society under her birthright.
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