His curiosity put itself into a question. “Stuffy these trees make the Avenue,” said Mr. Norris. “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. Walpole, and then to Newgate. A male voice, vibrant with terror, yelled out hoarsely. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. I can. I’m off to England. I go back about once a year.
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