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“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. He reached a silver cigar and cigarette box from the sideboard and put it before his father-in-law, and for a time the preliminaries of smoking occupied them both. ‘Seems quiet enough,’ observed the junior officer, his gaze raking the shuttered windows of the building’s grey stone frontage. And I’d do it again for you if needs be. You have to marry me. . There are two ways to go in, you understand. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning. Unless we can get some optimism into him, he'll probably start this all over again when he gets on his feet.
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