John’s father brought down a violin from a high closet shelf. Her heart was beating with quite unaccustomed vigour, her hands were hot, she was conscious of a warmth in her blood which the summer sunshine was scarcely responsible for. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. And so sudden and well-directed was the assault, that he completely overthrew his gigantic antagonist. “For one thing, Anna,” she remarked, “we had not the slightest idea that you had left, or were leaving Paris. We're lost. Annabel believed it, came to England and married Sir John.
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