When she awoke she felt as if she were adrift on a soft cloud through a golden sky. She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. He had finally put aside The Lilac Sunbonnet, gone into his study, lit the gas fire, and written the letter that had brought these unsatisfactory relations to a head. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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