Annabel laughed a little uneasily. All right! I’m off. She slipped on white thin-soled tennis shoes with no socks, her ankles exposed as Shari had once suggested they be worn. He had been ill; no matter about that: he recollected every thought that had led up to it and every act that had consummated the deed. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. An inarticulate instinct which now found expression. Do not believe it, Madam. Besides, he was a Yale man.
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