Her hair was of the darkest brown, and finest texture; and, when unloosed, hung down to her heels. After all, it was what she had been praying for—and Annabel could not have known her address. It was too good to be true. “It is an annoyance, my friend,” she said, “not a tragedy. . From a bi-secting street came shouting and music. Courtlaw rose to his feet. “It’s all right,” he said, reassuringly to the inquirer without. " "Ah!" shrieked Lady Trafford. ’ ‘And I love the way you call me imbecile,’ finished Gerald.
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