My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. The key's in the lock, on the inner side. That's one of the troubles with young folks: they take themselves so seriously. “Let us walk across the Park at least,” he said to Ann Veronica. Her eyes were soft and blue, arched over by dark brows, and fringed by long silken lashes. This time he couldn't get far. Wood's boat bearing up towards him.
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