He never said hello, as if it had become a personal taboo for him. ” “But it is too late,” she declared. He had promised her some books, for she had voiced her hunger for stories. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. Perhaps the Parisian atmosphere had affected him. She surveyed accommodation that seemed at first merely austere, and became more and more manifestly inadequate as the moments fled by. “MY DEAR MISS STANLEY,” it began,—“I hope you will forgive my bothering you with a letter, but I have been thinking very much over our conversation at Lady Palsworthy’s, and I feel there are things I want to say to you so much that I cannot wait until we meet again. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. A conviction that her sister’s words were true had from the first possessed her. Annabel was in hiding all the time.
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