She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. If you do not help me to read the riddle of yourself, Annabel, I think that very soon I shall be a candidate for the asylum. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write. “Thank you,” she said coolly. But pathologically, he is still on the edge. At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. ’ ‘I thank you,’ Gerald said drily. Oh, John. CHAPTER I.
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