He had set out to win her, and she had let him start. Sheppard looked fixedly at him, as if she would penetrate the gloomy depth of his soul. His little doll. “Annabel;” he moaned. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties.
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