‘Not where we’re going. ’ A sudden frown sprang to the fellow’s face. ‘Not in the open street. "Excuse me," he said, plunging his fork into a fowl, and transferring it to his plate. Anna went out. The wound lay open for five seconds, and then closed neatly as if it had been stitched by invisible hands. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting.
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