Chapter XI THE PUZZLEMENT OF NIGEL ENNISON Nigel Ennison walked towards his club the most puzzled man in London. And like that gospel it meant something, something different from its phrases, something elusive, and yet something that in spite of the superficial incoherence of its phrasing, was largely essentially true. Maybe the girl was telling the truth, and then again, maybe she wasn't. One would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife. ’ ‘What?’ squeaked Kimble. We’ll go to the shops. \"Some of them don't smell so good. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. She got up and unlocked the door. They are their mother’s sons. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. It took my breath away. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. But that was soon put right, and she walked out into London with a peculiar exaltation of mind, an exaltation that partook of panic and defiance, but was chiefly a sense of vast unexampled release. On a sudden, a change came over her countenance, which, up to this moment, had worn a smiling and satisfied expression.
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