Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months.
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