“Dear old daddy!” she said, and was amazed to find herself shedding tears. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. "My name will only be remembered as that of a robber," he mused; "but it shall be remembered as that of a bold one: and this night's achievement, if it does nothing else, shall prevent me from being classed with the common herd of depredators. She cried out with the pain of it. He began to talk again in quick undertones that she could not clearly hear.
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