Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. She was conscious of a ceaseless undercurrent of sound—the guttural Chinese tongue. CHAPTER XXV Spurlock pushed back his helmet and sat down in the white sand, buckling his knees and folding his arms around them—pondering. Wood fancied he heard the exulting laugh of Jonathan Wild. “Don’t befool me any more,” he answered, almost roughly.
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