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There is not a soul in the inn but ourselves. “I admired your sister in Paris,” he answered, “but I do not believe that I regard her now as altogether the same person. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. ‘Of course it is,’ corroborated Hilary. Balanced on his nose were enormous tortoise-shell spectacles. Detention was merry for the other detainees. ’ ‘I presume you were not with her in France?’ Kimble stared. The policeman raised his voice, slightly agitated.
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