Her girl, Clarice, was ten and just as pretty as a silver bell. In his way he was critical. ‘She?’ ‘Damnation!’ He saw her frown, and added at once, ‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. “I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said.
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