“Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. She could tell that he was leering at her. Stanley wanted to object strongly, but as he could not immediately think how to put it, he contented himself with a grunt, and the motion was carried. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. All his interest in Ruth, all his care and solicitude, could now be translated into a single word—love.
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