” “I forgive you willingly,” Anna said, bending over him. He tried to make love to me. “Call me Annabel. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years. Still, his conscience was partly satisfied. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. “I remember it very well indeed. Montague Hill do not interest me in the least. ” “She has changed a good deal,” Anna admitted.
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