There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight. ’ Fire enveloped Charvill’s mind and he brought up his cane, pointed like a musket. Her father’s step quickened to a trot. “Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. Wood. She won’t be a problem from now on. By the time John returned with popcorn and a large Coke, the theater had filled up with high-school kids. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. She chuckled.
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