“Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. “It is strange that we should have met Annabel,” she said. She wished he could smoke and dull his nerves a little. This was David Courtlaw, whose ways, too, had never been very different from the ways of other men as regards her sex. She is English, and apparently in some distress. Very fascinating, though, trying to analyse the impulse. But I was portentous, I can assure you. She crouched beneath a stump, her extremities twitching as the sun set orange and blue beyond the lace of iron-black trees.
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