My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. " "Ay, marry," replied Wood, with a look that seemed to say that he did not think it required any surprising skill in the art of divination to predict the doom of the individual in question; but whatever opinion he might entertain, he contented himself with inquiring into the grounds of the conjuror's evil augury respecting the infant. “Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. He had let go his name so easily as that! What was the name she had given? Ruth something; he could not remember. "I shall go back and finish my supper," said Mrs. ‘Imbecile.
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