He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. ” “They were my posters,” Annabel said. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. And she was as shrewd as they come.
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