Wood required little pressing. She hated the manor. Already she knew that she was overstaying her welcome. “You would believe that life is kindled by the passions alone. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. But this calm was more awful than the previous roaring of the blast. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily.
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