Even Capes had been for her merely an excitant to passionate love—a mere idol at whose feet one could enjoy imaginative wallowings. His deduction was correct that the beauty of Ruth Enschede could not remain hidden long even on a forgotten isle. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way.
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