She saw her mother, her pale face, a woman in a white robe, calling to her from a sun drenched balcony. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. “You are mine, Annabel, and nothing shall ever make me give you up.
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