Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. ” Annabel laughed derisively and took up her book. For a time she looked at no more apartments, and walked through gaunt and ill-cleaned streets, through the sordid under side of life, perplexed and troubled, ashamed of her previous obtuseness. Rowland's purposes were, however, defeated in a manner as unexpected as appalling. —Give me the letters, my love," she added aloud, and in her most winning accents; "they're some wicked forgeries. Everything, Miss Miniver said, was “working up,” everything was “coming on”—the Higher Thought, the Simple Life, Socialism, Humanitarianism, it was all the same really. It was maddening to be made to feel that he was in any way the inferior of this cool, self-possessed young woman, whose eyes seemed for a moment to scintillate with scorn.
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