Her aunt was making herself cuffs out of little slips of insertion under the newly lit lamp. They walked back to 118 hand in hand. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. At luncheon, on the third day, a thick-set man with a blue jaw smiled across his table at her. Then she looked up the sweep of pine-trees to the towering sunlit cliffs and the high heaven above and then back to his face. They send you every good wish. For a moment her thoughts led her back to the evening when she and Courtlaw had stood together before the window of her studio in Paris, before the coming of Sir John had made so many changes in her life. Things were thrown here and there, to be taken up, or again cast aside, as the whim arose; while the broken-backed chairs and crazy table bore the marks of many a conflict. I intend to remain very serious indeed while I’m doing it.
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