John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. But I will not believe you. I think we rest here until to-morrow?” There was a brief silence. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. To be near someone, even someone who made a pretense of friendliness, to hear voices, her own intermingling, would serve as a rehabilitating tonic. "Can you pull him through?" was the anxious question.
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