She would never look squarely at these dream forms that mocked the social order in which she lived, never admit she listened to the soft whisperings in her ear. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. He delayed the blow till the fortunate conjuncture was past.
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