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She leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes. Don’t stand gawping, man. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. The room was reeling, or was it that she was going to faint? She recovered herself with a supreme effort. But I've not promised to stand by him yet; nor will I, unless he turns out an honest lad,—mind that. . ” Annabel looked down. Her fingers were bursting through her gloves, as if to get at once into touch with Ann Veronica.
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