She was a trained being—trained by an implacable mother to one end. "If I were so, I should not be here," returned Trenchard. "It was given me by a man who was drinking t'other night with Blueskin at the Lion! and who, though he slouched his hat over his eyes, and muffled his chin in a handkerchief, must have been Jonathan Wild. It was as if her aesthetic sense had become inflamed. In fact he was thinking of other things. They had both been unsuccessful. No blowzy barmaids for him to-day: an American bar-keep to whom he could tell his troubles and receive the proper meed of sympathy. ” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne.
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