Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned. The houses overhung in a frightful manner, and looked as if the next gust would precipitate them into the river. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. “Lady Ferringhall, sir. ‘Gerald Alderley, I don’t know what you deserve.
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