Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. “MY DEAR VERONICA,—Your aunt tells me you have involved yourself in some arrangement with the Widgett girls about a Fancy Dress Ball in London. ’ ‘Well, sir? Who is “she”? Not my granddaughter, I take it. His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. A full-curled wig descended half-way down his back and shoulders; a neckcloth of "right Mechlin" was twisted round his throat so tightly as almost to deprive him of breath, and threaten him with apoplexy; he had lace, also, at his wrists and bosom; gold clocks to his hose, and red heels to his shoes. Money was not necessary; indeed, it would have embarrassed all concerned. Superimposed was the agitating thought of what would follow the death of this unwelcome guest: confusion, poking authorities, British and American red tape. Oh, Mr Jarvis paid no mind,’ she added hastily, as if expecting disapproval. He's nice. Love is one thing and friendship quite another.
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