He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. There was a confused impression of livery carriages and whips with white favors, people fussily wanting other people to get in before them, and then the church. He—wanted to marry me. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. ” Annabel looked down. “In any case, there is probably some mistake.
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