He sat with folded arms and knitted brows, thinking intently. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. “He looks as though he did, at any rate. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. They are born idiots, incurably insane. The barmaids had too strongly appealed to his sense of novelty.
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