The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. He heard Rollo's stump beat a gentle tattoo on the floor. ‘I was not born to this. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. Why? Because he knew that when these two young people left, the island would become intolerable. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped.
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