” “I suppose we are,” said Vee, rearranging the flowers in her hand. Annabel had been here then. You have never seen the child within your arms perishing from hunger, and no relief to be obtained. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. At length she hit upon it: bubbling water. The sing-song girl rose and meekly pattered out of the office into the night. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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