“Come,” she said. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. Wood went on fuming, and the trio went on laughing for some minutes, nobody knew why or wherefore, until the party was increased by Mr. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago.
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