While he was straining every sinew, his foot slipped, and he fell, head foremost, into a deep trench, which he had not observed in the dark. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. Pull yourself together, Annabel! I must have the truth. “Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. I said I knew he disliked and distrusted you and your work—that you shared all Russell’s opinions: he hates Russell beyond measure—and that we couldn’t possibly face a conventional marriage.
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