‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. I thought—the papers said——” “You thought that I was dead,” he interrupted. “Ass!” he went on, still warming. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. "You must take it to Sir Rowland Trenchard's in Southampton Fields. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said.
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