A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. Anna leaned over so that he needed only to whisper. To her mind, recalling the picture of him the night before, there had been something tragic in the grim silent manner of his tippling. “I am sure you will marry Nigel sooner or later, and then all your work will be thrown away. Oh, I think I understand, Annabel.
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