And now YOU’RE on the war-path. “Who wouldn’t be for you?” The train began to move. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. We wore invisible chains and invisible blinkers. I will return to Manchester at once. On your own.
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