’ He regarded her thoughtfully. The tears were streaming down her face, her voice was thick with sobs. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Wild's name. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek.
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