He hadn't followed this angle of thought in ten years: what he might have been, with a little shrewd selfishness. “It is from his brother in Paris. His face was a little flushed perhaps, and his small, brown eyes were bright. A dry cough's the trumpeter of death. And then suddenly—a relief. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips.
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