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The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. Annabel looked up and down the empty street, and then turned to her sister. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. ‘Tchah! So you’re the whelp’s girl, are you? Suppose you’ve nothing but that villainous French in your tongue.
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