Annabel had been here then. Again he played for her; and again the eruption of the strange senses that lay hidden in her soul. But she could see that Diane watched her more closely now, and in a cat-like way. Wood, was much better furnished with eatables than might have been expected, and boasted a loaf, a knuckle of ham, a meat-pie, and a flask of wine. The completest capitulation would not wipe out that trouble. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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