But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. “Now isn’t this nice!” that lady exclaimed. She shot a sudden glance at him. CHAPTER XXIII. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. The lines about his mouth gradually softened. There had been fusses and scenes dimly apprehended through half-open doors. .
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