Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. A black-garbed figure crept forward, noiselessly, towards Gosse’s back. . "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. "Not a single whooper-upter! Nothing but torment and remorse … and Ruth! Children, put your arms around me.
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