A note of belligerency had crept into his tone. “You are in luck, Miss Pellissier,” he declared. She ought to be softened and tender and confidential at this phase of her life. “Well,” she achieved at last. He grew even harder. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. “This means a plunge. I fight. ‘That’s better,’ said Gerald, and let her go.
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