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She is, in her way, a dear. She sat on the edge of the bed —the wardress was too busy with the flood of arrivals that day to discover that she had it down—and her skin was shivering from the contact of these garments. “You yourself have decided that—apart from the question of Annabel. “You poor thing. ‘Lover’s tiff indeed. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard. It seemed to her that it was her duty to get up and clamor to go home to her room, to protest against his advances as an insult. She had never dreamed of such decadence, never imagined that young people could be so happy and healthy. ” “Then I,” she said, “have too much character.
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