The question ceased to be a tea-table talk, and became suddenly tragically real for Ann Veronica. Sir Rowland then fell. Had it come already? Chapter XXVII JOHN FERRINGHAM, GENTLEMAN “Confess, my dear husband,” Annabel said lightly, “that you are bewildered. mm. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook.
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