Thus, all her interest in life began to centre upon the patient, who was apparently quite as anchorless as she was. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. I came to London to look for you, and somehow the figure I saw in my dreams had got mixed up with you. “I’ve got—I have to tell you this to make myself clear—a streak of ardent animal in my composition.
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