My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. It was the only time she had ever hit him, punched him right in the stomach like one of his favorite Three Stooges episodes. “Something. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions.
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