“It was poison—why not?” she answered. In the middle of the little town stood the shop of a Jew dealer in old clothes. . She had always had a wonderful ear for phrasing, even back in the days of the viol. For a short time they allowed me to share the warmth of their lives. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. Some friends who saw us dining together persist in alluding to her as Miss Annabel Pellissier. For a long time she surveyed a row of towering holly-hocks, as though they offered an explanation.
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