“Annabel;” he moaned. His foot touched the rounded edge of the starling, and glanced off, precipitating him into the water. Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. You've saved my life. There's a friend of Sir James—a young man, an engraver of masquerade tickets and caricatures,—his name I believe is Hogarth. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes.
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