“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. “If one half of the stories about Meysey Hill are true,” he answered, “I would not stretch out my little finger to save his life. "I don't know his name. Wood. ” He slipped off the horse. "I can't make you understand; I can't make you see things as I see them.
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