‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. There wasn’t, I know, between myself and my father. "Who, then?" demanded Jack. Annabel was conscious then of the slow anger which had been burning within her since the night of her visit to the “Unusual. Manning’s handwriting had an air of being clear without being easily legible; it was large and rather roundish, with a lack of definition about the letters and a disposition to treat the large ones as liberal-minded people nowadays treat opinions, as all amounting to the same thing really—a yearssmoothed boyish rather than an adult hand.
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