“Well,” he said slowly, “I had met you three times—before Drummond’s dinner. “I have loved you,” he was saying, “ever since you sat on that gate and talked. And all the third act is love-sick music. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. ‘Quickly! You must get up. The sky was dripping a wet, slow rain that had forced the city’s inhabitants into taxicabs and dingy cafeterias, the day wholly ruined for all except the insane schizophrenics and her.
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