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That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. She laughed softly, and leaned across the table. You'll live to hate chicken; and the man in you will rise up and demand strong drink. “And, after all, I am just one common person!” She watched the throb of the arteries in the stem of her neck, and put her hand at last gently and almost timidly to where her heart beat beneath her breast. The point is, Spurlock was coming along: queerly, by his own imagination. Or had she, like himself, been held up until the fellow returned to town? He waited, his ready humour anticipating her likely reaction. ’ ‘Who was to know if you would find your place?’ countered Martha. Somebody may be on the watch—perhaps, that old ginger-hackled Jew. One could enter and leave by proa, but nothing with a keel could cross the coral gate.
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