Her confession was still unmade. He was about to cut the sergeant short, when his eye fell on a gentleman walking along Piccadilly, his manner uncertain, his eyes shifting as if he sought something out. In all her life no living thing had had to depend upon her, not even a dog or a cat. "This must be prevented," he added to himself. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. Before you have lived—” He became darkly prophetic.
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