“The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. The little girl uttered no remonstrance; but, replacing the flowers in the basket, burst into tears, and withdrew. ” “I suppose,” said Constance, stencilling away at bright pink petals, “it’s our lot. She started at the falling of a leaf, at the lumbering of a cow through the hedge.
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