“Miss Pellissier,” he said, “I don’t understand this change in you. Tender with the sick, firm with the strong, fearless, with a body that had the resistance of iron, there was nothing of the hypocrite in him. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. That was how she projected it, and in general terms it seemed plausible and possible. She spent a very disagreeable afternoon and evening—it was raining fast outside, and she had very unwisely left her soundest pair of boots in the boothole of her father’s house in Morningside Park—thinking over the economic situation and planning a course of action. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. ‘You! Have you pen and paper?’ ‘Pen and paper now, is it?’ grumbled the old man as he shuffled down the hall. “But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. It was her past now, not Annabel’s.
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