Her father and her husband, who had both been a little pale at their first encounter, were growing now just faintly flushed. " After all those former bitter failures, this cup was sweet, even if there was the flavour of irony. Annabel a murderess! It was not possible. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. He dropped the key on the counterpane.
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