It was her past now, not Annabel’s. “Your sex is a terrible fraud. A black silk furbelowed scarf covered her shoulders; and over the kincob gown hung a yellow satin apron, trimmed with white Persian. They were alike in one phase—loveless and lonely. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. Wood, Sir," he added, with much emotion, "is one of the best of men, and would be the happiest, were it not that—" and he hesitated. It makes no difference.
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