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Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. “A new admirer, Annabel? But what has that to do with your going to England?” “Everything! He is Sir John Ferringhall—very stupid, very respectable, very egotistical. “This is all very well,” she said, “but two out of the three are rank deserters— and if the papers tell the truth the third is as bad. ‘Very wise,’ commented Gerald. We are not animals. Why had he kissed her? What had led him into that? Neither love nor passion— utter blankness so far as reducing the act to terms.
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