He personated over there a millionaire named Meysey Hill, and it seems that he induced Annabel to go through some sort of marriage with him at the Embassy. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. He wondered why she thought love made people happy, and began to talk of the smilax and pinks that adorned the table. Deuce take it! I was very near spelling my name with one P. Jerking forward, she jabbed backwards. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh.
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