Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She turned away from the doorway of the silk loom to observe. “Our interest lies in heading them off. So perfect was the illusion, that he could almost fancy he heard the solemn voice of the ordinary warning him that his race was nearly run, and imploring him to prepare for eternity. ” He said to her with as much casualness as he could muster. She hated to leave; for this hour would be the most interesting. He threw her on the bed. Too late now.
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