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Jackson. Annabel had been here then. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. Daughters were in the air that day. She took refuge in beating her pillow and inventing insulting epithets for herself. A white apron was tied round his waist, and into the apron was thrust a short thick truncheon, which looked very much like a rolling-pin. As the secret door opened, the sounds within the house came at once to her ears: the tramping of feet above, and the hoarse voices echoing through the mansion. "Anywhere," he said in answer to the manager's query. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine.
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