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He was content to watch her accepting compliments and gaudy bouquets full of red roses, white carnations, and purple statice. “Why do you hate me again, my love?” He seemed to brighten, feeding upon the intensity of her emotion. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. For a time he heard no more, and stared with stony eyes at a Book-War proclamation in leaded type that filled half a column of the Times that day. Don't shake so. Move. You give her a daub here and there where the rust shows.
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