Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. His face changed and she saw, with a stab at her heart, the dawning of irritation in his eyes. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. F. Drummond was telling me about the way old Ferringhall rounded upon them all at the club.
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