Wood, "it may be poisoned. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. It would hurt no one. . So absorbed was she by her passionate supplications that she was insensible to anything passing around her, until she felt a touch upon her shoulder, and heard a well-known voice breathe in her ear—"Mother!" She started at the sound as if an apparition had called her, screamed, and fell into her son's outstretched arms.
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