Maybe it’s his loss. “And let us have a talk about this—some other time. He could neither stifle nor deaden that. Jacques, Jacques!’ His face was white, but his eyes were open, if a trifle glazed. They give themselves airs, but so it is. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Feeling rather exhausted, it occurred to him that possibly some provisions might have been left by the constable; and, looking about, he perceived a pitcher of water and a small brown loaf on the floor. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me back.
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