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“Look here, father,” she said, with a change in her voice, “suppose I won’t stand it?” He regarded her as though this was a new idea. Holcroft, we may have been mistaken. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Naturally it all came out then. Sir John followed her gaze, and also saw them. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. “Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman.
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