The doctor laughed. When she came to, she was lying with her head in Martha’s lap, and a livid bruise was forming at the point of a raging headache. "But I have one last request to make. " "Aye," said McClintock, in a tone so peculiar that it sent Spurlock's glance to his plate. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. His brows drew a little nearer together. The picture of her flashed across the doctor's vision magically.
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