She rose to the fire to stoke it. The doctor and another man were by his bedside when they entered the room, and there were writing materials which had evidently been used close at hand. . ’ ‘Of course I am, imbecile,’ she snapped, unconsciously echoing her greatniece. I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. There’s something—puppyish in a man’s usual attitude to women. Annabel, tell me that you did not wish me dead.
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