It was in another world from that in which men will die for a kiss, and touching hands lights fires that burn up lives—the world of romance, the world of passionately beautiful things. “Oh, you know,” she said. It seemed incredible that she and her aunt were, indeed, creatures of the same blood, only by a birth or so different beings, and part of that same broad interlacing stream of human life that has invented the fauns and nymphs, Astarte, Aphrodite, Freya, and all the twining beauty of the gods. "I guessed what was coming. ’ ‘You mean Valade? Certainly not. “Annabel! God in Heaven, it is Annabel!” She did not speak. He was no Hoddy, but a tremendous man, with hairy arms and bearded face and drink-shattered intellect. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. " "I'm sure I'm very sorry.
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