6. That might happen on her birthday—in August. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. Annabel set her teeth hard, and turned fiercely towards Anna. Then she glanced at the cards again, over which her aunt’s many-ringed hand played, and then at the rather weak, rather plump face that surveyed its operations. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. This time there wasn't any doubt. The elements were wrathful as their passions.
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