“I am under police surveillance,” she said. That's well. There could not, he decided, possibly be two girls so much alike. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Annabel believed it, came to England and married Sir John. What a girl of sixteen cares for is hair and a high color and moonlight and a tenor voice.
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