“Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. Unless there was some real metal in the young fool, some hidden strength with which to breast the current, Ruth would become a millstone around his neck and soon he would become to her an object of pity and contempt. ‘Wait! No time for that. I don’t think I shall ever care for this bonnet again. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. Mother? Suzanne Valade, her mother? With deliberation, he spoke. If she returns to the house from which we took her, her companions will laugh at her and smother her with ridicule. . “It sounds too ridiculous.
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