Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. “Splendid you are looking to-day, Miss Stanley,” he said. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. ‘Then it must certainly be Eugénie. Meysey Hill—never your wife.
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