How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. “Come on in. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. ‘I’m not going to arrest you, young Jack—yet. John eased off. It was a motor accident—a fatal motor accident the evening papers called it.
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