There was a third lady among the younger set. She had no place she loved. Many things were only words, sounds; she could not construct these words and sounds into objects; or, if she did, invariably missed the mark. It seemed to show a want of affection, to be a deliberate and unmerited disregard, to justify the reprisal of being hurt. Then Manning flopped back in his chair and dropped his chin like a man shot. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name.
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