“Annabel at last,” he shouted. So, after the dinner was over, Spurlock took her home; and worked far into the night. Spurlock knew that somewhere along the way he would write a story worth while. Sir James Thornhill, then, rose. Not a star could be discerned, but, in their stead, streaks of lurid radiance, whence proceeding it was impossible to determine, shot ever and anon athwart the dusky vault, and added to the ominous and threatening appearance of the night. Ann Veronica’s appearance was brief and undistinguished.
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