CHAPTER XXIII. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. " "You think so, eh?" chuckled Shotbolt, who was eagerly perusing the reward, and congratulating himself upon his caution; "you think so—ha! ha! Well, don't go to bed, that's all. Hobson, the Phys. " The doctor relaxed. His invalid wife and her money had been only the thin thread that held his life together; beaded on that permanent relation had been an inter-weaving series of other feminine experiences, disturbing, absorbing, interesting, memorable affairs. A dresser, a washstand, and a clothes press. But, holy smoke!—the Yale spirit in…. ‘Here, miss,’ came faintly from somewhere close at hand. “Excellent!” he exclaimed. Certain simple purposes emerged from the disingenuous muddle of her feelings and desires. Bit priggish, isn’t it? And if he only knew it—so absurd.
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