” “Not long ago,” she said, “you left me in anger, partly because of this exchange of identities between Annabel and myself. "Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. " Nothing on land or water was spared by the remorseless gale. He could remember when women laid away their gowns in lavender—as this girl's mother had. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously.
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