Then began expostulations, preluded by a telegram and headed by her aunt. The rest she meant to keep for her immediate necessities. “Won’t you have some more tea, Mr. ‘Tell me, my boy. "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. “Ever yours, “ANNABEL.
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