Annabel, I was lying. But take a drop of wine," urged he, filling a drinking-horn and presenting it to her; "it's choice canary, and'll do you good. But if you don't want to get up, maybe three times ten days. And by degrees, perhaps, that maiden distrust of yours that makes you shrink from my kisses, will vanish. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. “She has nothing to be afraid of,” he continued. “But—” The long inconsecutive conversation by that time was getting on her nerves. And they never talked of anything at all, never discussed, never even encouraged gossip.
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