" "You are right," replied Darrell; "the weakness is past. " Miserably his thoughts shuttled to and fro in search of what he knew she wanted —a love story. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Plus he’s a genius. . He put it carefully aside, resolved to defer the attempt till night. As she did so, the ruffles to the jacket of her riding habit fell away, exposing livid blue bruises about her wrist, ugly in the light of day from the window at their back. The flowers upon the mantel-shelf were withered and drooping—she had gathered them.
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