And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. Tell me how you are earning your living here, Anna—typewriting, or painting, or lady’s companion?” “I think,” Anna said, “that the less you know about me the better. A white house that she often found charming loomed gray and ashen, its gardens shorn for the coming winter.
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