” She paused. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face. “He was alive at four o’clock this afternoon,” she answered, “but the doctors give little hope of his recovery. Lady Angela shrugged her shoulders. Another day of nonsuccess would mean many disagreeable things. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life. Are you going to write a novel?” “Not I,” she answered gaily.
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