Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. "Aha! my lad!" he cried without appearing to regard the pain of the wound; "now I'll show you no quarter. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek.
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