“Annabel?” he exclaimed. Awful shapes seemed to flit by, borne on the wings of the tempest, animating and directing its fury. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. I hope we may never find her again. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know.
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