“Annabel?” he exclaimed. He leaned towards her as though anxious to see more of her face than that faint delicate profile gleaming like marble in the uncertain light. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. ” She replied. Better get back now! You be careful. ” “Not in the least,” Anna answered calmly. He had barely said, \"Anytime,\" before she shut the door rather rudely in his face. His literary instincts were reviving.
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