Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. He deserves none. You don’t know the thoughts we have; the things we can do and say. He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. . Late in July he finished the fourth story.
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