"Your sympathy is being wasted. “She”, you say. You know nothing of life, nothing of its dangers, nothing of its possibilities. She walked over to them still carrying the trousers in her hands, and stooped to examine them. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. “Not a bit of it. It was necessary to think, and think quickly.
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