She tried gentle words with him, beguiling perfumes, even slipped aphrodisiac tisanes into his soup. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. He opened the door of still another room, in one corner of which was a grand piano. The burden of decision had been transferred. There she would wander about in the kindly darkness. The watermen, who manned the larger wherry, immediately shipped their oars, grappled with the drifting skiff, and held it fast. It could not be she who had done this.
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