There is so little abandon, so little real joyousness. Annabel shook her head. Ireton and his friends to taste it. She had no inkling of that insupportable wrong. She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. Take your half loaf with the others. The Tigress went prowling for nut, too. My reception at West Kensington you know of. Very well, I give up.
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