" "Odd's me! do you think so?" cried the host of the Trumpeter. "I am an officer in the execution of my duty. You’re mine. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. "When I am dead you will learn it. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. ” Annabel laughed derisively and took up her book. E.
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