Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. You do not make me afraid like this. Diable. She stole the opportunity to peer at his departing figure from the closed curtains of the front room window, his shoulders slumped forward, his posture and his ego slightly deflated. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.
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