Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. ” “An appetite like yours,” he said resignedly, “is fatal to all sentiment. . He became angry. She dropped a flower—it’s in my pocket-book now. A wild passion of shame and self-disgust swept over her. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. ‘How could you? No wonder mademoiselle is angry with you. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted.
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