"That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. I thought you might like to see. ” Annabel’s hand stole into his. Even on cool days the gardens were colorful and bright, with orange trees emanating sweetness and bumblebees drunkenly weaving from flower to flower. Wood," she cried, as the staff fell from his grasp.
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