‘How in God’s name did the wretched fellow get in then?’ ‘Dug a tunnel?’ suggested Gerald, halting next to a pair of French windows at the front. Give me this picture. Montague Hill. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. The huge, newly remodeled brick house was crammed full of people reeking of beer, vodka, and tequila. He unlocked himself from her embrace. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. "Wretch!" she cried, "you shall not force me to your hateful purpose.
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