‘Now, madame, tell me all about your life in France. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. Only the night before, in the dining room of the Hong-Kong Hotel, she had watched him empty glass after glass of whisky, and shudder and shudder. It wouldn't do to say that she was from the hospital.
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