She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. ’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. Upon a table, where they had been hastily deposited, on the intelligence of Darrell's accident, lay a pair of pink kid gloves, bordered with lace, and an enormous fan; the latter, when opened, represented the metamorphosis and death of Actæon. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. You're welcome to it. Brendon felt his arm seized.
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