"It is your son. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ‘I don’t want a list of all the nuns resident in your wretched convent. ” Hill looked up at him, an unkempt, rough-looking object, with broken collar, tumbled hair, and the blood slowly dripping from his face. ” She looked at him; his face, downcast and in profile, was handsome and strong. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is.
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