Anna stood on the step and looked up and down the street for a hansom. A man as rich as you are ought to have a thousand-ton yacht. That is what terrified her: the consciousness that nothing in her life would be continuous, that she would no sooner form friendships (like the present) than relentless fate would thrust her into a new circle. They got to go home and eat Campbell’s Chicken Soup. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure.
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