“Lucy!” He whispered into her ear beneath a dusty curtain cloud. "Yes; but what is good isn't always proper. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. I myself have had the pleasure of dining with her. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. Suppose our proper place is a shrine.
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