“It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. "You are my prisoner, Jack. ‘What?’ ‘Nothing,’ snapped Roding, with an odd look at his bride to be that Gerald could not interpret. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape. She decided not to ask him outright if he wished to make love to her. Gerald studied the darkness beyond the aperture.
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