I hope you will always remember——” Annabel held out her hands with a little cry of protest. Pancras,” she directed, promptly. They vanished through the doorway. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. It was an impulse. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn. ‘I cannot possibly shoot a lady, you know.
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