A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Her moods were many and always striking. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. She looked up and said, a little breathlessly, “I’m sorry, aunt, but I don’t think I can. Her life hangs upon a thread, and this may snap it. Or I should say—’ ‘Eugenia,’ cut in Gerald grimly.
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