Ann Veronica stood in the twilight room staring at the door that had slammed upon her aunt, her pocket-handkerchief rolled tightly in her hand. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Wild, Captain?" remonstrated the other, in a deferential tone. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. Sir John saw it, and was flattered.
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