“I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. Remember ——” Annabel clutched her sister’s arm. She saw it, and checked without thinking. It was about—a question of what I might do or might not do. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. She was correct, and when I went directly to the street she had named, there you were, walking into the Butcher Shop.
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