Each of my scholars thinks it his own shirt. I'm no mollycoddle. Sheppard let fall her basket. Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. Had she said the words aloud? He pulled her close and she nuzzled her head on his chest. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring.
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