We are expecting a visit from Sir John Ferringhall at any moment. His diminutive hand flew out from behind his back like a wounded bird. What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. Sure of foot, noiseless, he made the veranda and paused at the side of one of the screened windows. As soon as he was gone, Jonathan went up stairs to the audience-chamber; and, sitting down, appeared for some time buried in reflection. They thought that she was her own mother.
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