’ ‘You mean the one that you refused to feed?’ demanded Gerald, seizing this promising cue and adopting a mournful note. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. His hunger satisfied, his spirits began to revive, and with this change of mood all his natural audacity returned. Because here was the haven for which she had been blindly groping: the positive abolition of all her father's rights in her—the right to drag her back.
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