Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Bring the light this way—quick! I cannot decipher the signature. She had told Emile. Earles, but it is a good one. I would like to have to tell it so. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. And then! a garment that was conceivably a secondary skirt. Let me take the satchel, sir.
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