How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. Cocking the gun. Upon what this instinct was based she could not say; she was conscious only of its insistence. The father was a madman. Father— dead. “I wish he had,” she said. But, whether she likes it or not, I aim to be on hand to get her out of it. . Wood bore up with great fortitude against the shock, attended the inquest, delivered his evidence with composure, and gave directions afterwards for the funeral, which took place on the day but one following—Sunday.
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