The kindly faced landlady had failed to catch his name, and said he was a tall, handsome gentleman with a great black mustache. She wore a plain black dress, reaching almost to her throat—her small oval face, with the large brown eyes, was colourless, delicately expressive, yet with something mysterious in its Sphinx-like immobility. The one nearest to her, which must lead to the library. But her husband, whose deportment to her was considerably changed since the fatal knot had been tied, paid no attention whatever to her grief. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. “That is my dream of you,” said Manning, warming.
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