Ed. Brendon was silent. “I drink your very good health, Sir John and Lady Ferringhall,” he said, “and I wish you a pleasant journey back to England. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused. He stood still, almost breathless. Every man in her life had betrayed her one way or another. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. He did not care whether the stories were accepted or not. I can’t love you. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. I want to put myself into your hands.
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