My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. You would not have believed me, I know well. You didn’t even do that Vee; not even that. Everything was fresh and bright, from the kindly manners of the Frutigen cobbler, who hammered mountain nails into her boots, to the unfamiliar wild flowers that spangled the wayside. “Lucy, do you forgive me?” She looked at him in earnest.
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