Only her babe died. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. Lord Charvill’s sense of justice would not, however, allow him to repudiate his granddaughter, if indeed this female proved to be the infant lost to the family so many years ago. She turned the gas up in her little sitting-room, and sank wearily into an easy chair. “Did you see who that was?” he asked in a low tone. Here, put it on your finger. All her protests seemed stifled before she could find words to utter them. There was a mad musician, seemingly rapt in admiration of the notes he was extracting from a child's violin. My foster mom works there as a second job.
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