“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. She was definitely following him. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. The vengeance of the assailants did not stop here. As the woollendraper's back was towards him, he did not perceive him, but continued his passionate addresses. But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. The wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts.
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