She stared at him. I begin to understand Jane Austen and chintz covers and decency and refinement and all the rest of it. "What's your name?" he said, addressing the audacious lad, who was looking about him as coolly as if nothing material was going on. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her. And there was that dress of hers! She must be warned that she had been imposed upon.
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