Every moment or two he bent over his patient. " "Would you have had him spare my mother's murderer?" cried Winifred. A disagreeable young man, with red hair and a loose mouth, seated at the reporter’s table, was only too manifestly sketching her. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. From the sounds of it, he was better off dead.
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