And mind, your life,—more than your life—hangs upon your choice. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. As they kissed goodbye, she hoped that he felt the same reluctance to part. They joined the rabble of aspiring James Deans in torn jeans and bomber jackets and girls with Clairol black hair smoking clove cigarettes. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Pure romantic nonsense on her part. .
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