“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. Here was one of those Americans who would make him breathless before sundown. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. At this moment, a door was opened below; lights gleamed on the walls; and the figures of Rowland and Sir Cecil were distinguished at the foot of the stairs. How Jack Sheppard attended his Mother's Funeral. Some man! And to conclude it all was the figure of her father in the doorway, giving her a last chance, his hat in one hand, his umbrella in the other, shaken at her to emphasize his point.
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