“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. She watched for five minutes until he completely disappeared over Pine Crest, past the yellow fire hydrant and the dented stop sign. "But, however, it may turn out, I disown you. There's the grand laced coat he wore at his trial, which I intend for my wedding-dress. You know I am in love with you. ” “It is for your good—your good only I am thinking,” he declared. John. She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone.
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