She was a woman now to the tips of her fingers; she had said good-bye to her girlhood in the old garden four years and a quarter ago. “For men have reason, women rhyme A man scores always, all the time. The palanquin is hired and so is the procession. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. She had black hair, fine eyebrows, and a clear complexion; and the forces that had modelled her features had loved and lingered at their work and made them subtle and fine.
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