“God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. I was—I was a corespondent. “Ciao, Fragolina. And he hazarded a wink at the poet over the paper on which he was sketching. “Number 13, please, cabman. —'We'll do it,' said they, filling their glasses, and looking as fierce as King George's grenadier guards; 'here's your health, Mint.
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