“God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. She never touched the manuscript with pencil, but jotted down her notes on slips of paper and left them where he might easily find them. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. One night, she drew close to him in bed, trying to warm herself by embracing his back. ‘Espéce de diable,’ she screamed. She did not want to go to the doctor's people; however kindly that might be, they would be only curious strangers. I know now what it is to be an abandoned female.
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