Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. Expiation. ‘Who is that man? What has he to do with you? No, don’t tell me. His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins.
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