“You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked. Heaven alone knows why. Beyond was a field sloping steeply upwards, and at the top a small pine plantation. She went up-stairs and hesitated between four doors with ground-glass panes, each of which professed “The Women’s Bond of Freedom” in neat black letters. The Red Room. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese.
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