Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Miching Mallecho. To be ill and helpless. Let’s face it, she hates Missy’s guts. Sheila plucked it out of Lucy’s hamper with some of Lucy’s panties and brassieres, figuring that she’d help out because she was doing a load of whites anyway. Anna sighed as she reflected that her sister had simply revelled in her indiscretions. “Do you mean, aunt,” she asked, “that my father thought I had gone off—with some man?” “What else COULD he think? Would any one DREAM you would be so mad as to go off alone?” “After—after what had happened the night before?” “Oh, why raise up old scores? If you could see him this morning, his poor face as white as a sheet and all cut about with shaving! He was for coming up by the very first train and looking for you, but I said to him, ‘Wait for the letters,’ and there, sure enough, was yours. This is one of the late E.
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