Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way. "If you don't decide quickly, I'll scream," cried Mrs. I shall borrow it and apply it to you, Hilary. From McClintock's came an infernal tinkletinkle, tump-tump! There was no composing with such a sound hammering upon the ear. Our quarrel's quite over. Father-worshipping sons are abnormal— and they’re no good. There isn’t a husband breathing, Annabel, who wouldn’t have blessed that pistol in your hands, and prayed God that the bullet might go straight.
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