In all his life he had never realized a dream; but the thought had never before hurt him. He stood upon the threshold, dangling his eye-glasses in his fingers, stolid, imperturbable, mildly interrogative. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. He cried out but his father only waved 280 like an automaton until the apparition disappeared. “You haven’t seen him in three hundred years?” He asked. At the back of her mind there seemed always one irrelevant qualifying spectator whose presence she sought to disregard.
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