Instantly she seized the poker and made a desperate effort to get them out again. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. The Widgetts talked with a remarkable absence of external coverings; the Palsworthys found all the meanings of life on its surfaces. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. At length, about an hour before dawn on the second day—Sunday—having spent the early part of the night in watching at the gates of the robbers' sanctuary, and being almost exhausted from want of rest, she set out homewards.
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