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She had even confided to him how lonely it was in the island. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. No sooner had they entered the room than Sharples, who waited to usher them in, hastily retreated, closed the door, and turning the key, laughed loudly at the success of his stratagem. "It won't do, widow," said he, drawing near her, while she shrank from his approach, "so you may spare your breath.
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