Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual. I’m ashamed to confess it, but I didn’t want the charge of you—a too close reminder of my own lost babe. Not the explosive vigour of the north-born, but that which would quietly meet physical hardships and bear them triumphantly. Notwithstanding her emaciation, her features still retained something of a pleasing expression, and might have been termed beautiful, had it not been for that repulsive freshness of lip denoting the habitual dram-drinker; a freshness in her case rendered the more shocking from the almost livid hue of the rest of her complexion. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. "A missioner! That illuminates everything.
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