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But when she was thinking it over in her room that evening vague and baffling doubts came drifting across this conviction. But in that case, why the raging jealousy about Madame having taken her place. “Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. He did not have to.
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