But she was not there. ” He looked at her intently. . ” Annabel had been lying curled up on the lounge, the personification of graceful animal ease. “Won’t you sit down,” she said, “and tell me what you want to say?” Her voice was flat and faint. "I am very wicked," she said. "I'll admit that. They don’t catch on to discursive interests, you see, because they are more serious, they are concentrated on the central reality of life, and a little impatient of its—its outer aspects. She is the image of what I was like, and she has a better voice. Rot, no doubt; but we can’t alter it.
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