“Mary!” He whispered loudly. The entrance of the house 85 was grand, and upon entering she was immediately greeted by John’s mother, a tall, thin woman quite a few years older than Cathy Beck. ” “You are sure that he asked for me—not for Annabel?” “Certain,” Courtlaw answered. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. “I don’t think you can have heard me, Vee,” he said, with intensely controlled fury. There was the cottage she had inhabited for so many years,—in those fields she had rambled,—at that church she had prayed. “Heavens, look at the time!” she exclaimed.
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