The boy was right. "Tush!" exclaimed Sir Rowland, angrily. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. He began to tell me something—and stopped. But this is all different. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of. . It still failed in something. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo.
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