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“Annabel;” he moaned. ’ ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Old Newgate. We were to live in some wretched London suburb. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts.
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