"I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. CHAPTER XXIII. It was her past now, not Annabel’s. So was I, in fact. Ennison too, always handsome and debonnair, seemed transported out of his calm self. Miss Charvill.
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