As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. “What do you think of them?” Anna extended her critical survey and shrugged her shoulders. "I had to give in to him.
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