What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. One thing may be a necessary collateral of the others. Breakfast, too, was an impossible occasion. What would it be without that safeguard?” Ogilvy pursued his own topic. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. Meantime the spinsters sought the dining room where tea was being served.
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