It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. ” “Your priestess,” whispered Ann Veronica, softly. The commissionaire smiled. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used.
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