Forgetting her occupation in her anger, she left off bathing Darrell's wrist; and, squeezing his arm so tightly that the boy winced with pain, she clapped her right hand upon her hip, and turned, with flashing eyes and an inflamed countenance, towards her crest-fallen spouse. Lord, what a state I was in! Night after night I sat there, I watched her come in, I watched her go. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated.
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