My only love is for my poor lost son. She hung about his chair, followed him to the door, touched his sleeve timidly, all the while striving to pronounce the words which refused to rise to her tongue. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. She had better escape if she can. You wouldn't rob Mr. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one.
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