The destroying angel hurried by, shrouded in his gloomiest apparel. ” He shook his head. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. “Annabel! Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, child?” she exclaimed. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed. She's too pretty and unusual. It was not in evidence here, not a sign of it. There was going to be no quarter between these two. She winked at him as he shut the door. Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life.
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