So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. “You heard no pistol-shot?” “None. ’ She bit her lip, frowning. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. "I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. But why do you ask?" "Because—" stammered the boy. I never had even a real doll," she added, as she snuggled the flea-bitten head to her heart.
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