From then until four in the afternoon there was nothing to do—the whole island went to sleep. Finger to his lips, Gerald pointed in the direction of the noise. Wood's. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. He looked distant, irritated. Capes was an exceptionally fair man of two or three-and-thirty, so ruddily blond that it was a mercy he had escaped light eyelashes, and with a minor but by no means contemptible reputation of his own.
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