Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. "Sir Rowland," he added, savagely, and with somewhat of the look of a bull-dog before he flies at his foe, "if it were my pleasure to do so, I could crush you with a breath. I will have nothing to do with you. But that bridge was more remarkable than any the metropolis now possesses.
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