But she could tell by the dullness of his eyes that he saw only some inner vision. As she came close, he took a pace forward and seized her from behind, one strong arm clamping her tight against his chest, the free hand seizing her about the mouth, stifling the cry that gurgled in her throat. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. The vestry door opened to the mews behind, and not to Golden Square.
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