Spurling. He carried a cane and a silk hat with a mourning-band in one gray-gloved hand; his frock-coat and trousers were admirable; his handsome face, his black mustache, his prominent brow conveyed an eager solicitude. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. ‘A convenient desire, Mademoiselle Charvill. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. ” “I will have your reason for this,” he said.
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