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Chapter XXIX MONTAGUE HILL PLAYS THE GAME The man opened his eyes and looked curiously about him. “Annabel;” he moaned. I want to get away—to go to London. I wanted to talk to you before when you first came to live here two years ago, but I never did. The lights of the Champs Elysées and the Place de la Concorde, suggestive, brilliant, seductive, shone like an army of fireflies against the deep cool background of the night. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. “By Jove!” he said, “there is something direct about you. “Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. She must be beautiful, but beauty is only the beginning. 123 It didn’t take long. Winifred's features would have been pretty, for they were regular and delicately formed, if they had not been slightly marked by the small-pox;—a disorder, that sometimes spares more than it destroys, and imparts an expression to be sought for in vain in the smoothest complexion. ’ He took a pace forward, seizing the gun with one hand, while the other locked her arm so that he could forcibly wrest the weapon from her. But about the unknown Englishman she was not so satisfied. He had spoken impressively, and most likely Anna, had she reappeared, would have met with a fair reception. You must let me do whatever I can for you.
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