"That's it!" cried Wild when Trenchard concluded. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. It was still raining heavily, and profoundly dark. He came to her at once, and turning, walked by her side. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. "Here we part,—perhaps for ever. "Impossible!" exclaimed the widow, wildly. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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