My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Sir John heard gossip about us—about Anna the recluse, a paragon of virtue, and Annabel alias ‘Alcide’ a dancer at the cafés chantants, and concerning whom there were many stories which were false, and a few—which were true. My eyes are open to you. But for me it doesn’t matter. She tightened her bandage and sat back, biting her lip. He will be hanged—hanged—hanged. If he stayed in the basement apartment as was his usual habit, she would have no problem.
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