‘No more, Saling, no more,’ said Mrs Sindlesham in accents of exhaustion. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. David Courtlaw—Sir John Ferringhall. Nobody can trust you. It isn’t such fun as it seems. ’ Disappointment flooded her. Wood then led the way up a rather high and, according to modern notions, incommodious flight of steps, and introduced his guest to a neat parlour, the windows of which were darkened by pots of flowers and creepers.
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