Annabel, I was lying. The girl stood with her hands behind her back, sulky, resolute, and intelligent, a strand of her black hair over one eye and looking more than usually delicate-featured, and more than ever like an obdurate child. Two children, who had been caught in the jam-closet: ingratiating smiles, back of which lay doubt and fear. ‘Give me my pistol!’ Gerald shook his head, slipping the pistol into his pocket. For you say that you swim.
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