Anna stood looking down upon her sister with grave perturbed face. The doctor sensed that his bolt had gone wrong, but he could not tell how or why. On some insane score she fancied she had to state her case in verse. Annabel, I cannot believe it. Quilt's manner, indeed, was that of a man endeavouring to muster up sufficient resolution for the commission of some desperate crime. But it would serve. "Devilish nice ham you've got here!—capital pie!—and, as I live, a flask of excellent canary. My business is with Lady Trafford.
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