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Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. “I don’t mind, of course, your seeing her sometimes, still there are differences— differences in social atmospheres. And that would spoil it. ‘She? Sa femme? That is the game then? That she could dare to take my place, that salope.
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