She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. "The lash cuts to the bone. Sheppard, fleeing from him to the farthest corner of the room. The thought of their faces, and particularly of her aunt’s, as it would meet the fact— disconcerted, unfriendly, condemning, pained—occurred to her again and again. I'm always agreeable to the women, bless their kind hearts! Now! slip the purse into my hand. Perhaps I am still mad. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Miss Annabel is her sister.
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