He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. ” “Can’t we go down into Italy?” “No,” he said; “it won’t run to that now. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. This is my last week at the ‘Unusual,’ you know. She sat in a chair in the parlour and regarded the darkening sky through the small casement window.
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