Her wings were oddly weak, but for all that she could fly. And she had not dressed herself in this habit of a blue so much like the sky just for his sake, no matter that Lucy had said how much this colour suited with her eyes. He forgot Annabel’s idle attempts at love-making, all the cul-de-sac gallantry of the moment. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. Water poured into her eyes, nose, and mouth in a torrent from which she had to turn and wheeze.
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