E. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. “You are Sir John Ferringhall,” she repeated. Marvel, in a tone intended to be consolatory. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. With a rustle of her full lilac petticoats, Miss Froxfield turned back to Alderley.
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