They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. \" He leaned at a steeper pitch. They sat in the front row. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. But once he had steered the lady down the hall and along a passage to a window seat at the end, he abandoned the subject of society.
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