Lucy heard a stir, but if Dawn Plote were to arise and come into the room, it could only mean two murders tonight. ‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. But I shan't let him off thus. His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. But, when? When do they go?’ ‘Today, miss. This is simply a chapter of coincidences.
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