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” She replied with a rehearsed answer, “I was told that my real mother died the day I was born. She covered herself with her arms. Now he lay there, a doubled-up mass, with ugly distorted features, and a dark wet stain dripping slowly on to the carpet. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent.
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