It had been part of her wedding trousseau, a gift from her family to his. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. I’ll give you grandpére!’ ‘But milor’—’ ‘Pardon!’ No longer master of his actions, the general lurched forward, waving his cane.
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