" "Wood!" exclaimed Trenchard,—"of Wych Street?" "The same. "You're on," said O'Higgins. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression.
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