Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. “Thank you,” she said coolly. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return.
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