He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. The streets were full of colour. “Good,” he said, as he watched the colour come back to her cheeks. ” He paused, with his eyes studying her gravely. "I'm my own master now, and I'll do as I please. ‘I am not French in the least, bête. “Annabel,” she said brusquely. Forgive me.
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