Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. Sir John and Annabel seated themselves at one of them, and the proprietor himself, a small dark-visaged man, radiant with smiles, came hurrying up, followed by a waiter. Glancing idly up at her own window as they had swung round the corner she had seen a strange thing. “There is my aunt,” she said. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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