Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards. "Vell, vell," growled Sharples, after he had listened to the other's remonstrances, "it shall be done. But, holy smoke!—the Yale spirit in…. ” “I am convinced of it,” she answered. She held out the foil.
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