You don’t wear a dinner coat with a flower in your button-hole, or last night’s shirt, or very glossy boots, nor do you haunt the drawing-room in the evening, or play at being musical. “We played at love-making in Paris. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully.
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