He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. The ruffled chemise-front under the wide lapels of her waistcoat and jacket no longer quivered, and her pose, with the full cloth petticoat spreading about her, was relaxed. “There is my aunt,” she said. Spurlock bent his head to the rail.
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