At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. ‘Well said, my dear. “Your brother has gone?” she asked Sydney, between the courses. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Earles said, rubbing his hands together, “by post. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter.
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