Without turning or looking in his direction she leaned forwards, her head supported upon her fingers, her elbows upon her knees. She was at the end of girlhood and on the eve of a woman’s crowning experience. If he had nothing to tell her, she had nothing to ask. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago.
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