He did not look at her directly, though she fantasized that she could 141 feel his stares from the back of the class on occasion. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. "What the devil are you about! Will you allow yourself to be beaten by a couple of kids?" "Not if I can help it," returned Abraham, making a desperate effort to regain his feet. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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