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The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. ‘Now I see why you’re marrying this woman, Hilary. The voice of the young seaman came floating down from the masthead, and the story of the immortal lovers had begun. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey. ” Annabel’s hand stole into his. “If you speak—farewell.
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