He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. It’s Italian. "That's a good story, lad. At least, I hope so for his sake as well as my own," he added, mentally. He rolled on top of her, pinning her with his arms and forming a tented cage. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. ‘Ain’t my place, I know that. But underneath this tolerance there is always the vague hope that your manhood will someday reassert itself.
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