She had delicate oval features, light, laughing blue eyes, a pretty nez retroussé, (why have we not the term, since we have the best specimens of the feature?) teeth of pearly whiteness, and a brilliant complexion, set off by rich auburn hair, a very white neck and shoulders,—the latter, perhaps, a trifle too much exposed. Worse than any man. Do you know, Annabel, that you are my wife. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. I have never wept since that day. “Oh my God, what if she’s dead?” More giggling. I don’t know if I express myself clearly. I hardly see you anymore. You could walk the city streets and with every blink you could take in a new sight of beauty so great that your heart would weep for it.
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