Never had he corrected her with hand or whip, the ring in his voice had always been sufficient to cower her. “If I thought for a moment that there was any chance of a relapse, I should stop here and tell him the truth even now. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. The attempt was unsuccessful. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago.
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