What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. She realized dimly that there was no personal thing behind his cry, that countless myriads of Mannings had “My God!”-ed with an equal gusto at situations as flatly apprehended. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. And, fearing you might not come to me, I forced my way hither, even with certainty of discomposing your friends. But you belong to me—and I want you. He nodded.
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