” “Never better in my life,” Anna declared briskly. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. “Dare!” she said. ” Ann Veronica opened her lips quickly and did not speak. The fanatic has no such word in his vocabulary. 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. It seemed an emblem of the ruin he had caused.
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