“A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. ” “Why not?” She turned on him. " At this juncture, two women, very smartly attired in silk hoods and cloaks, appeared at the door of the Lodge. John’s demeanor shifted. And this was an adventure of which he had dreamed from boyhood: aboard a windjammer on the South Seas. The slow stars circled on to the moment of their meeting. Wood brought up. It was no use. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. The rain smelled of the Tyrrhenian Sea, which lay only a few paces beyond the manor's white sea-soaked walls. Terrific yells rent the air.
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