” “You love—Anna?” she exclaimed. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Wood. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Fear nothing. You have grown into my life, and I cannot tear you out. He's neighbourly; he has a jingle for every ache and joy I've had. Earles himself stood upon the threshold of his sanctum, the prototype of the smart natty Jew, with black hair, waxed moustache, and a wired flower in his button-hole.
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