"If I spoke to him, my interest might be misinterpreted. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. “No, not that I know of,” Michelle replied, her still eyes not meeting Lucy’s. She will die if she knows I have a gun. The odour of kerosene permeated the bungalow; but Ruth mitigated the nuisance to some extent by burning native punk in brass jars.
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