It belonged to his father, and was worn by him on the night he was murdered. “You see, daddy, I don’t think it IS preposterous. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. She followed Oxford Street into Holborn, and then she inquired for Chancery Lane. You’re a far cry from your usual gloomy self these days. An admirable alternative presented itself and she sighed, spreading her hands.
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