He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. The same look she had often seen in the eyes of the drunken beachcombers her father had brought home, and it had not filled her with horror. Diane Vorsack tried to disguise the fact that she was livid, her daughter’s buffoonery having driven off the prestigious dinner guests before the after-dinner drinks could be served. “How are you feeling?” She asked with grave concern in her voice.
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