“It is very good of you to come and see me, my dear sister,” Annabel remarked, throwing herself into a low chair, and clasping her hands over her head. She opened this and scrambled out—a thing she had not done for five long years of adolescence— upon the leaded space above the built-out bath-room on the first floor. Below was an uninspiring street, a thoroughfare of boarding-houses and apartments. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “Sure, but it’s not like you’re married, you know. "Have you sent off the note?" inquired Jack. Earles answered, glibly. "How?" cried her brother, starting.
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