She loved Florence, wandering the huge markets which bustled day and night. Clearly dazed, he stared, whispering an oath. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. He feared to antagonize that distinguished person. “Dear friend,” she said, “remember that you are speaking to one who has failed in the only serious object which she has ever sought to accomplish. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography. I was grateful. Not up here, I think.
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