It was a grand life. I thought it was a mirror at the first, for it was so very like myself. The easel and palette having been packed up, and the canvass carefully removed by Austin, the party took leave of the prisoner, who was so much abstracted that he scarcely noticed their departure. Don't strip me quite. But I never found any truth in the saying. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Winter came at the manor.
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