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Now I’d like the rest of your story. Annabel, I cannot believe it. "How go you like your quarters, sauce-box?" asked Sharples, in a jeering tone. I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders. "We have had a sad loss, my dear Winifred," he began,—"for I must use the privilege of an old friend, and address you by that familiar name,—we have had a sad loss in the death of your lamented parent, whose memory I shall for ever revere. Poor thing! how beautiful she looks! but how like death!" Deathlike, indeed, was the repose of the sleeper,—deathlike and deep. Besides, revenge is sweetened by delay; and I indulge too freely in the passion to rob it of any of its zest. ‘Alors, I see how is this. ‘You think so? Well, if that’s so, I know where she gets her impudence, Prudence Sindlesham. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. He walked on for an hour longer, till he could scarcely drag one leg after another.
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