“Go on!” “People talked to you in Paris about us,” she continued, “about Anna the virtuous and Annabel the rake. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. We’re hard stuff!” Then she went on: “To think that is my father! Oh, my dear! He stood over me like a cliff; the thought of him nearly turned me aside from everything we have done.
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