He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. " "Poor child!" muttered Trenchard, abstractedly; "the whole scene upon the river is passing before me. His horse, which had apparently gone to sleep, preferred to remain where he was. He looked like an animated skeleton that someone had hung a smelly 105 brown beard upon.
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