It was he who saw them first coming down the room—Annabel in a wonderful white satin gown in front, and Sir John stiff, unbending, disapproving, bringing up the rear. There were seven tales in all—short stories—a method of expression quite strange to her, after the immense canvases of Dickens and Hugo. She drew it out with shaking fingers. She began to want to lay her head down on his chest but absolutely denied herself. She could accord her father with one grace: he was not in any manner a hypocrite. “It isn’t anything to do with our times particularly. I am tired, and I want to be alone.
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