But I trusted to that ring of yours. When she slipped off of it her head started to bob, filled with air. That was supposed to be Madame Valade. Through an open door was a glimpse of the bathroom—a vision of luxury, out of which Annabel herself, in a wonderful dressing-gown and followed by a maid presently appeared. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully. Nice lady. It now came to him with an added thrill how well she had told her story; simply and directly, no skipping, no wandering hither and yon: from the first hour she could remember, to the night she had fled in the proa, a clear sustained narrative.
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