And as for not knowing me, you abominable little liar, you’re perfectly aware that we met at Remenham House. As Wood obeyed, his foot slipped; and, casting his eyes upon the floor, he perceived it splashed in several places with blood. His frowning gaze came back to her. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. Wood—and after him came his daughter.
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