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In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. Nevertheless Sydney, clumsily, but earnestly, had something to say about it. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. “We have no airs and graces here, and my hat hangs from a peg in the passage. And I get myself dirty. "Who isn't it like?" he asked, endeavouring to gain possession of the drawing, which, af the sound of his footstep, she crushed between her fingers.
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