Ann Veronica was lying on her bed in a darkling room staring at the ceiling. Her patience was waning fast. ’ ‘The tables, they are turned, I think,’ she returned. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. It was the last thing she felt like drinking. "Oh! that was all, was it?" said the turnkey, quietly reseating himself.
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