"I do," replied Sheppard. “Is this true, Annabel? Is he dead?” She nodded. The quarry had passed out into the open sea. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She could not be more than twenty; and though want and other suffering had done the work of time, had wasted her frame, and robbed her cheek of its bloom and roundness, they had not extinguished the lustre of her eyes, nor thinned her raven hair. Michelle said the police bungled the investigation, though.
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