But tell me how have you escaped from the confinement in which you were placed—come and sit by me—here—upon the bed—give me your hand—and tell me all about it. And don’t talk until we’re well out of earshot. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. These realizations rushed into Ann Veronica’s mind and hardened her heart against him.
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