The fact that it was her trusted friend making illicit love to her remained, in spite of all her effort, an insignificant thing in her mind. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. He said. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. So far, however, was this submission from producing the desired effect, that it seemed only to lend additional fuel to her displeasure. .
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