” She smiled faintly. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. '—'They can't,' says I. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. The knots and broken pale that made the garden-fence scalable, and gave access to the fields behind, were still to be traced. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son.
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