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Section 1. The bleach had ruined it, with yellow-orange streaks invading the frizzy white that cascaded in wavy tendrils coated with greasy hairspray. He advanced a step towards her. “Steady on!” he cried. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. “You wish me to stay?” he asked, in a low tone. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester.
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