CHAPTER XXVII His idea, cleverly planned, was to shatter her resistance, to confound her suddenly by striking her mind with words which would rob her coherent thought. Now you can understand why every minute is a torture to me. Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. “Thank goodness!” said that retreating aspect, “that’s said and over. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead.
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