“Dear John,” she whispered. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. He drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, terrified by the utter fallowness of his mind. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. Ennison with my sister last night.
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