But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. On the one hand, she seemed to think plainly and simply, and would talk serenely and freely about topics that most women have been trained either to avoid or conceal; and on the other she was unconscious, or else she had an air of being unconscious—that was the riddle—to all sorts of personal applications that almost any girl or woman, one might have thought, would have made. I'll leave these out, and to-morrow you can read them through. Is it so, Annabel?” “I did not know,” she faltered, “anything about you. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. ‘That is why I have come to England, you understand. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. He pointed to where the lights still burned in Anna’s windows.
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