David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Earles threw down his pen with a little exclamation. She stood 218 there, broken bottle still in hand. Even Shari’s graduation party was put off until later in the summer when they could afford it. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. Every eye seemed focussed upon her; and yet she had known the sensation to be the conceit of her imagination.
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