“It was a bad day for me,” he said, speaking slowly and painfully. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl. But here the resemblance stopped. He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. 13 Montague Street. “When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered.
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