“Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. The image in the glass was not clear, for the light was not bright enough to see properly, but the shadows of her riding habit and the hat with its waving plumes framed a countenance that gazed serenely back at her out of long-lashed blue eyes. The bed-and table-linen were of the finest texture. And I have no more the pistol. Nothing shall induce me to act contrary to the dictates of my conscience.
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