“You cannot give me ultimatums. Gerald, I mean, not Madame Valade. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Had she not seen them go forth with tracts in their pockets and grins in their beards? To set fire to his imagination, to sting his sense of chivalry into being, to awaken his manhood, she must present some irresistible project. "But, take my advice, and keep out of Sir Rowland's way, or you'll get the poor lady into trouble as well as me. He recoiled from the sting. A middle-aged countrywoman, plump of cheek, and a little shy. There is the election——” He laughed derisively. “You’re getting too old to put things off, John. The turnkey looked round the next moment, but the manoeuvre escaped his observation. Which are you—Valade or Charvill? Or, no, let me guess.
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