He was not, in truth, much of a ladies’ man. “Do you hear!” she said “whatever you are, wherever you are! I will not be slave to the thought of any man, slave to the customs of any time. 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. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. It is like some accident. That's part of the bargain. Boldly he turned the knob of a certain door and entered. His natal burr was always in evidence when he was sentimentally affected. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly. '—'Oh! yes we are,' says he. He was a comforting, humorous old ruffian; but there were few men in the Orient more deeply read in psychology and physiognomy. She would end alone. She was going through with that, anyhow.
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