The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. “He has asked to see some one,” he whispered to the doctor. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. But, alas! she was beautiful—and beauty is a crime not to be forgiven by a jealous woman.
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