That turned her mind to the more generalized aspects of her perplexities again. Sheppard's ward, Sir. The walls rocked, the footrail of the bed wavered, and the girl's head had the nebulosity of a composite photograph. “I have always,” she admitted calmly, “taken a certain amount of interest in Annabel’s future. ‘Dreadfully untidy, is it not? Can’t abide bare rooms. I hate this part of the world. And stony broke.
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