“His stipend forbade it,” she said, and seemed to fall into a train of thought. Pity you aren’t under my command. Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. During the previous night he had been restless; and in the lonely dragging hours his thoughts had raced in an endless circle—action without progress.
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