It was time to get up. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Half French. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. But we must not anticipate the course of events. He seemed to do ten things before she could think to do one, to leap upon her and take possession. CHAPTER XXIII Next morning Ruth did not refer to the episode on the sands of the lagoon. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. " "You'd better send him," jeered the turnkey. “All right so far,” she said to herself. “I was surprised, I admit,” he said. .
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