"I shall need little more. Shall I send him to Sir John?” Annabel was white to the lips, but her anger was not yet spent. Take my child to—it is—oh God!—I am sinking—take it—take it!" "Where?" shouted Wood. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat.
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