47 was no more than a sort of railway compartment on the way to that. A little kindness would not bring the world tumbling about her ears. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. But she did not listen long; she wanted to talk. Nobody ever called me John, that I recollect. McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes.
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