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. I—well, I lost my temper. I suppose I ought to have been a man. ‘Though we might have done, if a certain addlepated clothhead hadn’t let her get away. Why, then, did he touch it? As he climbed heavily into his chair, she was able to note the little beads of sweat under the cracked nether lip.
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