She staggered to the fireplace and thrust it into the heart of the dying flames. She is like some character out of Phra the Phoenician: she's been buried for thirty years and just been excavated. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. Mr. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. . Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the author. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. \" \"I'm sorry I didn't call.
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