She’s hated me for no apparent reason ever since Fourth Grade. Beware of him, my son! Beware of him! You know not what villany he is capable of. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. I saw them both. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. Gazing at her with eyes blinded with tears, he imprinted one brotherly kiss upon her lips. Left alone with Edgeworth Bess, Jack burst into a loud laugh of exultation.
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