“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. The wastrel, the ne'er-do-well, who went mostly nobly to a fine end. "So you're writing under a nom de plume, eh?" said McClintock, holding out the letter. Let’s go up to my room. Pause. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. Plain, wide-mouthed, freckled, and ugly, she was an instantly jealous creature, her saving grace that she took no pains to mask her extreme dislike 47 of petite, pretty girls. "What is a sing-song girl?" she asked. " "Dare not!" echoed the carpenter; "I don't understand you, Joan. "We'll see," returned the thief-taker.
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