” His fingers touched hers for a moment under the ledge of the box. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Those who had seen him slumbering, averred that he slept with his eyes open. I'll be wanting my sixteen thousand. “Why should it matter?” he said. How can he help you?” She threw such a look upon him that even he, Sir John Ferringhall, carpetmerchant, hide-bound Englishman, slow-witted, pompous, deliberate, felt his heart beat to music.
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