"Ay, indeed! And who may that be?" inquired his wife. She went to her bedroom, but she did not go to bed. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. The lights rolled over, and were extinguished. There! You are trying to take your hand away. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. A bumper round, gentlemen.
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