“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. “It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. Holding down the light, he perceived that the wounded man had risen to the surface, and was trying to clamber up the slippery sides of the well. His eyes were closed. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. At the sight of her he became rigid and a singularly bright shade of pink. “It’s not. The echo of those kindly words seemed still to ring in her ears.
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