"Are you a poltroon, after all?" "That's it! I ought to have died that night!" "Or is there a taint of insanity in your family history? Alone and practically penniless like yourself! You weren't even stirred by gratitude. “My dear girl,” he said, in a tone of patient reasonableness, “you are a mere child. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it. He was nearly wincing.
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