It was her past now, not Annabel’s. You didn’t even put the twelve words. She would wake in the night to repeat her bitter cry: “Oh, why did I burn those notes?” It added greatly to the annoyance of the situation that she had twice seen Ramage in the Avenue since her return to the shelter of her father’s roof. And he had destroyed all this. Get on with it, then. To-morrow I am going to Paris. I cannot live without you, Anna.
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