These little squares of coloured paper interested her mightily—hotel labels. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. “I’ve tried to make words tell it. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian. "Mr. Annabel, come to the door with me,” she added a little abruptly. “I will tell you when to stop. I am shockingly poor. McClintock stared into the bowl of his pipe and Spurlock into his coffee cup. “So is Mr. " "Poor soul!—poor soul!" groaned Wood, brushing the tears from his vision.
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