"When I went through your trunk that first night, I discovered an envelope filled with manuscripts. I'll go alone. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. It was a port of call, since fortnightly a British mail-boat dropped her mudhook in the bay.
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