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She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. "I was right," replied Jack, returning as coolly as if nothing had happened. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. Annabel, I cannot believe it. I want to enrich it with hangings and gladden it with verses. He shuddered. ’ He slid slowly down and collapsed to the stone floor, fainting dead away. ‘And then vanished into thin air,’ rejoined Hilary on a sardonic note.
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