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‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. "It's the boy's death-warrant," observed Jonathan, with a sinister smile. Annabel shines like a star in the darkness, Rosamund queens it a rose, deep rose; But the lady I love is like sunshine in April weather, She gleams and gladdens, she warms—and goes. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. I don’t care. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping.
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