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. Anna sent her away. "You soon shall," rejoined Sheppard. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. “What’s wrong with having witchcraft books? Is she afraid that the Princeton Hill villagers will burn you at stake?” Lucy asked sarcastically. Not a bad man as men go, but he would sell whisky and gin. She confronted him with his own double-standard. I want to fill it with fine and precious things. You did not say a word about it last week, nor have you written. But you are Annabel.
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