It was eleven o'clock. "But I am now coming to the point which most concerns you. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. My father died a year ago, by the way. Her back stiffened. She perceived she had never really thought of any one but herself in all her acts and plans. This is simply a chapter of coincidences. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience.
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