Morgan the trader did not haggle over the pearls, but gave me at once what he judged a fair price. And such skirts as Ann Veronica had had when she entered the valley of Saas were safely packed away in the hotel, and she wore a leather belt and loose knickerbockers and puttees—a costume that suited the fine, long lines of her limbs far better than any feminine walking-dress could do. "I think you're all bewitched," she cried. Restlessness, then, was the trouble, simple restlessness: home bored her. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. Her fingers rested upon his. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping.
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