You are my slave—and such you shall continue. “You must answer me, Annabel,” she continued. She was ashamed of herself for the simple gladness she felt wash over her as the infant’s screams ended. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. But that explains everything.
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