In one angle of the room stood a disused fire-place, with a rusty grate and broken chimney-piece; in the other there was a sort of box, contrived between the wall and the boards, that looked like an apology for a cupboard. She had fallen asleep. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Yet even now there were so many things untouched, so much to be learned. Anna was still holding her cigarette between her fingers. At least here she was safe. Heliers.
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