On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. " "Not a farthing more, I assure you," rejoined Ireton, pettishly; "we're all on the square here. “What on earth did you expect me to do, then?” he asked. Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. ‘Espèce de bête,’ she snarled. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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