Her voice was weak and flat. At last his voice came to release her tension. He unlocked himself from her embrace. Father— dead. “Let me get you some water, Annabel. " At the sound of his voice every vestige of colour fled from Winifred's cheeks, and the work upon which she was engaged fell from her hand. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. I am not of the canaille, but a bourgeois. His subconscious sensed the unnaturalness of it and recoiled.
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