It was red and chapped. Her sister had told him that it was true. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. "Well, he won't do that here. She will not confide in me.
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