Her foster father had been outside for most of the morning, working on trimming the maple trees and mowing the lawn. She found the silence comforting, as old people often do. He was a small, dark, reserved man, with a large inflexiblelooking convex forehead, and his wife was very pink and high-spirited, with one of those chins that pass insensibly into a full, strong neck. Cocking the gun. The office is a sight—not one sheet of paper on another; bills and receipts everywhere. She had flung away from her father’s support with the finest assumption of personal independence. Possessed, at one time, of a share in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand pounds. Annabel saw it, and suddenly changed her tone. “Soon she will return.
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