” “I am afraid,” she murmured, “that it would be difficult. ” Annabel laughed hardly. And then her pace slackened. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine. Paris was full, and it was by no means a retired spot which she had found. ‘What’s more, I wouldn’t blame her. But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said.
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