“You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. This horrible piece of deformity, who acted as drawer and cellarman, and was a constant butt to the small wits of the jail, was nicknamed the Black Dog of Newgate. Had he been sick in the mind when he had done this damnable thing? It did not seem possible, for he could recall clearly all he had said and done; there were no blank spaces to give him one straw of excuse.
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