“You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. " "Take a glass of gin, Ma'am," cried Poll Maggot, holding up a bottle of spirit; "it used to be your favourite liquor, I've heard. It was owing to the untimely end of this poor fellow that Mrs. Why didn’t he die?” Anna sprang to her feet and walked restlessly up and down the room. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. “Your mother was a Gypsy.
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