He was by no means certain that she would not in fact attempt to blow off his head as she had threatened. He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. “Mere sensuality. As I hope for mercy, I speak the truth!— let him deny it if he can. But probably not the truth. She sat on the edge of the bed overwhelmed, the roses cradled in her arms.
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