E. Annabel, come to the door with me,” she added a little abruptly. “It isn’t objections exactly. “We were good friends in Paris, weren’t we? You made me all sorts of promises, we planned no end of nice things, and then—without a word to any one you disappeared. The lad hesitated. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. After all, he had the means of setting this tormenting doubt at rest.
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