Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. He had found her in a communicative mood, and he used the accumulated skill of years in turning that to account. Eh bien, she must use her tongue against him. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. That is what stands between us, if you would know—that. Nigel Ennison, Annabel.
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