"She's glorious!" He knew that he must hoodwink this keeneyed Scot, even as he must hoodwink everybody: publicly, the devoted husband; privately, the celibate. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. The tourist season would soon be at ebb, and it would be late in September before the tide returned. "But I give no information gratis!" "Speak, then," said Rowland, placing money in his hand. Spare him!—pity me!" With this she arose, and, taking up the infant, was about to proceed down stairs, when she was alarmed by hearing the street-door opened, and the sound of heavy footsteps entering the house.
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