It was empty. “Of course,” he ventured, “I could try for more at the ‘Alhambra. Leonardo he was my—’ ‘Don’t say it,’ Gerald cut in hoarsely. The spinsters—who on the morrow would vanish out of the girl's life for ever—had already left their imprint upon her imagination. Good night. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered.
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