“It really seems as if we shall have to put down marigolds altogether next year,” Aunt Molly repeated three times, “and do away with marguerites. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. In the end he broke his own heart along with your mother's. ‘Yes, do,’ approved Lucilla. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers.
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