Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. Either ignorant of the accident, or heedless of it, the foremost horseman pursued his way without even turning his head. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action.
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