And now, when you come at last, you bring me this grandfather, and you dare to tell me I am like him. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music. He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand.
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