She is called Madame Ibstock, you understand. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. The asylum was approached by a broad gravel walk, leading through a garden edged on either side by a stone balustrade, and shaded by tufted trees. “You seem to be taking our little joke more seriously than it deserves, Ferringhall,” he remarked.
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