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“Let us escape,” she said. ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. In this room was my ruin begun: in this room it should be ended. It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. Pancras,” she directed, promptly.

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