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” “What else,” Lady Lescelles murmured, “are men for?” Anna laughed. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. “Alone, dear?” “Yes, aunt. But the world didn’t do that. She arrived about nine o’clock the next evening in a state of tremulous enthusiasm. She returned home through a world that was as roseate as it had been gray overnight. It jars with all my ideas. “He is Annabel’s husband,” she reminded him.
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