“There is no doubt whatever about that. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. I do not think that I have the Bohemian spirit at all. " "In what way, Sir?" demanded Trenchard, in astonishment. ” “How absurd!” Annabel declared. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments.
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