’ The sword was released to slide back into its scabbard. “I have a message from your sister. The door to the library burst open. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. I gather you wish to go up in some fantastic get-up, wrapped about in your opera cloak, and that after the festivities you propose to stay with these friends of yours, and without any older people in your party, at an hotel. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. It got on my nerves—the women I saw.
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