Every time he left a room, she chastised herself bitterly for her own profound weakness. She sat in deep thought for a moment or two, and then nodding briskly, dipped the pen in the ink again and began to write. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. Paul’s, were rich and wonderful with the soft sunshine of London, the softest, the finest grained, the most penetrating and least emphatic sunshine in the world. I was supposed to do the same, but I didn’t.
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