In the artificial light her skin had the tint and lustre of a yellow pearl. Martha was quite right. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. She wanted to think of him as her beloved person, to be near him and watch him, to have him going about, doing this and that, saying this and that, unconscious of her, while she too remained unconscious of herself.
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