Mrs. Wood, softening her asperity. We'll try whether he'll get loose again. I ought to have seen—” “It doesn’t matter a rap—if you’re not disposed to resent the—the way I behaved. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. “I wonder,” she said, “why one writes him sentences like that? It’ll have to go,” she decided, “I’ve written too many already.
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