“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Did you grow up at the Valade estates? You were born a Valade, I take it, even though your father is English. One morning, as he took his stand on the Hong-Kong packet dock to ambush the possible tourist, he witnessed the arrival of a tubby schooner, dirty gray and blotched as though she had run through fire. You have to marry me.
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