"The poor things!" The manager laughed. Inhuman as he is, he would not kill her. Sometimes—a lonely forlorn child—she had gone to him and put her arms around his neck. “I wouldn’t make this objection,” Mr. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. “Who, me? I scare you?” He asked. To think of him as loving her would make all that different. Only a son’s another story.
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