“Do you know, I have been wondering what had become of you,” she said. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. He sounds to me like a soldier of fortune. No mother would have sent her daughter into the world with such a wardrobe. She had found that proof. Then you may have a bit of a chance. I’m starving.
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