But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. A grimy, battered object, which had no place in the fashionable quarter of town. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. ’ ‘You mean I need not have said it? Damnation. " He stuffed the printed chintz into her arms and smiled into her eyes. Occasionally the mere fact of lying in bed became unendurable, and she rolled out and marched about her room and whispered abuse of herself—usually until she hit against some article of furniture. He looked at her reproachfully. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet.
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