“Annabel at last,” he shouted. Anna and her escort exchanged glances. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. For the present, he murmured his farewells, and turning, caught Hilary’s eye and walked away, crossing the ballroom to move into the less opulent, and less crowded, saloon next door where servants were dispensing refreshments. “I will not have this slavery,” she said. But I’m generously ignorant of gems.
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