My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. He leaned towards her, laid his hand tenderly upon hers. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. ’ She tossed her head. 58 \"Why will you not touch me?\" She cried out, sitting up, her head in her hands. 216 “Please, get dressed.
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