She met the keen grey eyes of a clean-shaven man, between forty and fifty, quietly dressed in professional attire. He held down the light, and a moment afterwards beckoned, with a blanched cheek, to Rowland. I would that you were my own. ‘Dear me. Miss Annabel is her sister. Martha had been more to her than that. And yet to Spurlock it was only the title of a story he would some day write.
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