Having disposed of his steed and swallowed a glass of brandy, without taking any other refreshment, he threw himself on a couch, where he sank at once into a heavy slumber. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. I have always been lonely. Overjoyed beyond measure at having vanquished this apparently-insurmountable obstacle, Jack darted through the door. All at once Melusine remembered Pottiswick, and the errand he had run. “That sounds so uncouth,” she murmured.
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