” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. He learnt that his sister was privately married—the name or rank of her husband could not be ascertained—and living in retirement in an obscure dwelling in the Borough, where she had given birth to a son. “You are really a good Samaritan,” she declared. “We suspect that Mary is alive, and we think she will try to contact you if she ever tracks you down.
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