Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. It is she that I must see. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. She exited solemnly, retrieving and carrying Michelle’s unconscious figure into the forest like a reluctant bridegroom. The intoxicating sense of novelty had given place to a more business-like mood.
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