He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. Died short, I suppose, and the girls had to shift for themselves. “He fell over at my feet,” she continued. She had found a couple of articles about him over the years, blurbs about the opening of a theater that mentioned him. “You were talking to that fellow Ramage to-day—in the Avenue. His hand went to his pocket and extracted a neat silver-mounted pistol. “Exactly. Anna raised her eyes. When he was done she kissed his cheek tenderly. How dare you use my name and sing my songs?” Anna looked at her sister in blank amazement. I spoke a thought aloud.
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