” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. The child fell within a short distance of Darrell, who, hearing the splash, struck out in that direction, and caught it before it sank. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. ‘And she’s—’ She broke off, a sudden light in her eyes. He’s got flowers.
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