Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. There was a new softness in her eyes, a hesitation, a timidity about her manner which was almost pathetic. Few approached the émigrés directly, preferring to stare covertly from behind their fans, while pretending to admire the simple elegance of Lady Bicknacre’s neo-classical refurbishments. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out.
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