I don’t love you. “You see,” she said, very gently, “I AM going. “Ever yours, “ANNABEL. “Ritter’s!” said Ramage to the driver, “Dean Street. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. Over the mantel, set into an ornately carved panel with fluted columns at each end, was a portrait of a man on horseback.
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