E. Pretty good stuff, some of it. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. “And I have dragged you all over here for nothing,” she murmured. Her birthday was four months away, and that, at its extremist point, might give her another five pounds. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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