“After all, it’s our honeymoon. There it is. ” Annabel rose to her feet. She would be in the library, her favorite place, or on the bench by the colored glass window with her embroidery. “It was poison—why not?” she answered. How could she tell him of the evil that drew her and drew her, as a needle to the magnet?—the fascinating evil that even now, escaped as it was, went on distilling its poison in her mind? "Yes, yes!" said the doctor. And that confounded engagement!” “Gone!” They came upon a platform, and stood before her compartment. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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