“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. —Strype's Stow. But he died when he was a child—long ago—long ago—long ago. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind. She reminded him of his linnet, when he gave the bird the freedom of the house: it became filled with a wild gaiety which bordered on madness. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. He had always warned her explicitly about turning others into vampires. Her grave fine face, her warm clear complexion, had already aroused his curiosity as he had gone to and fro in Morningside Park, and here suddenly he was near to her and talking freely and intimately. His two wives have been here. . At one time, she determined to go to Wych Street, and ask Mr.
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