“Believe me, I know. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. “Why did you do it?” her aunt urged. ‘Here we go again. But never would any so dishonour himself as to hand a fellow rogue over to the authorities. She would be enduing this chap with attributes he did not possess, clothing him in fictional ruffles. While this was passing, Jonathan opened one of the upper windows, and fired several shots upon the assailants.
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