"Is it poison?" she asked. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. You’re mine. “Perhaps,” she said, “it is the London climate. “I know,” she said quietly, “that Paris, where she has been so much admired, is not a good place for her.
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