Her hair and voice and figure are as yours used to be. . Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Her cheeks were the colour of chalk, her eyes were filled with terror. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life.
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