So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. ‘And your schooling?’ he pursued. His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. “You MUST,” he said, “because of my depression.
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