Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. "But vere'll be the use o' vinnin'? you von't live to pay me. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. Even in his fevered hours, so the girl had said, his tongue had not betrayed him. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. But God did not put you next door. To be no longer with Martha was strange.
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