CHAPTER VIII. I can't give you my hand; but you may take it. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. “I did not,” Anna answered. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative. The watcher's intake of breath was sibilant.
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