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Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Urging his steed along Oxford Road,— as that great approach to the metropolis was then termed,—he soon passed Marylebone Lane, beyond which, with the exception of a few scattered houses, the country was completely open on the right, and laid out in pleasant fields and gardens; nor did he draw in the rein until he arrived at Tyburn-gate, where, before he turned off upon the Edgeware Road, he halted for a moment, to glance at the place of execution. ” “YOU know,” said Ann Veronica. “And you must please not look at me as though I were an executioner,” she declared lightly. Lucy sized up the girl. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. . ’ The listening soldiers began to snigger behind their hands. ‘So it was.
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