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“I love this warm end of summer more than words can tell,” he said. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. This morning he heard voices—McClintock's and the Wastrel's. She had been sitting on the bench for two and a half hours, which was uneventful except for the homeless men who begged for change. .
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