She followed the landlady half way up-stairs, and called up to Ann Veronica, “May I come up? It’s me! You know—Nettie Miniver!” She appeared before Ann Veronica could clearly recall who Nettie Miniver might be. "Your son," replied Jack,—"your miserable, repentant son. “I can survive on my own. It was fortunate that by this time Winifred had so far recovered, as to be able to afford her father the best and only solace that, under the circumstances, he could have received,—her personal attentions. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. .
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