“Sir John is not at all that sort. Chapter XXII AN OLD FOOL Lady Ferringhall made room for him on the sofa by her side. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. ‘I would read your body,’ he whispered, and lifted her fingers to his lips. I don’t want to get old or to watch my kids get married or retire.
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