’ ‘Mercy me,’ gasped the nun. You are your nephew's executioner, or he is yours. On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. A victim of one of those mental typhoons that scatter irretrievably the barriers of instinct and breeding; and he had gone on the rocks all in a moment. Pig? By George, every one of them looks like the other; and yet each one attacks the source of supply with a squeal and an oof that's entirely different from his brothers' and sisters'.
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