He was beginning to think about her inordinately. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. Blueskin, you are a true friend. Darell's peculiar bent of mind was exemplified in a rusty broadsword, a tall grenadier's cap, a musket without lock or ramrod, a belt and cartouch-box, with other matters evincing a decided military taste. “I don’t see what else I could have said,” he remarked. All that was needed to complete the simile was that the girl should burst into song. “What did it matter?” she cried.
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