He sent a speculative glance at the immobile yellow face. Lady Ferringhall listened, and her cheeks grew pale. “Manning,” she said, and contemplated a figure of inaggressive persistence. Slowly, he drew back his head and looked into her face. He had little money about him, and unless friends come to his aid he must be treated as a pauper. He climbed on top of her, pressing her into the couch cushions, the gown billowing around them like a cotton candy parachute.
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