He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. He had heard nothing. He was ruffled, and his ears were red, no doubt from some adjacent controversy. “My name is Anna Pellissier, sometimes called Annabel.
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