"So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Rollo barked. She meant to go, she meant to go, she meant to go. “No, no,” she cried. She had not seen Ramage for ten or eleven days, and she was quite ready for a gossip with him. ’ Gerald knew the caress in his voice was a trifle ironic. He saw his father, calling to him from an icy white tunnel, beckoning to him. I hope you will always remember——” Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. [Illustration: Distinctive Pictures Photoplay.
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