Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. “Your father is dead too, I believe,” he continued, “and your mother. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. Not my affair, of course, but I think we ought to teach them more or restrain them more. Every minute I spend here is an education to me. It was now a quarter past twelve.
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