She did not enter the cabin at once, but paused on the threshold and stared at the silent, recumbent figure in the bunk. See what you have made of me. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. I am always reinventing myself with new styles. But De Maupassant—sheer off! Stick to Dickens and Thackeray and Hugo. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. ” Annabel leaned back in her chair and laughed till the tears stood in her eyes.
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