Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. A crowd was collected round the fellow, who was rapidly disposing of his stock. Sheppard, fervently. "Don't speak ill of him behind his back, father," interposed Thames. She sensed he might try and wane on her doorstep. Anyhow, there was some pleasurable satisfaction in knowing where the quarry would be for the next three weeks. He returned the locket without comment.
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