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‘Forgive my not rising to greet you,’ she said, holding out a claw-like hand. Suddenly she thrust her head out of the window. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. It hadn’t even been called Kentucky back then when the Shawnee still hunted deer over mossy hills and the smoke from their fires could still inspire terror. The Night-Cellar. Her heart thudded.
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