Lucy stared out to the busy streets beyond. I will never wed you. Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. For five minutes he has been trying to think of something to say. The joy of being loved thrilled her as nothing before had ever done, a curious abstract joy which had nothing in it at that moment of regret or even pity. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. The door opened, and a slightly overweight pretty blonde, an older, wiser version of Michelle, came into view. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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