” Annabel looked intently into her glass. Despair engulfed her at the horrid remembrance that the one particular Englishman she knew to be sympathique did not at all wish to marry her. Here was an appalling fact: all her previous loneliness had been trifling beside that which now encompassed her and would for years to come. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled.
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