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She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. A new restlessness seemed to have stolen in upon her. ” “A—marriage certificate!” Annabel gasped. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue. It is very possible that he will ask you to tell him before witnesses how you received your wound. ” Miss Stanley turned to her.
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