“Hey you,” he said affectionately. “Thank you, ma’am. ‘Are you going to tell me?’ ‘But looking for proof,’ Melusine uttered impatiently. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Briefly explained, she was as the child who discards the rag baby for the living one. But it’s love you should’ve had when you were tiny and I didn’t give it to you. It was his mother, and as he gazed on her pallid features and motionless frame, Jack's heart severely smote him.
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