I’ve got nothing to do for a month but think. You must forgive the poet’s license I take. She was sick of herself, of her life, of everything but him; and for him all her masked and hidden being was crying out. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. "As long as I live, I'll never forget that dress of hers," Prudence declared. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room.
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