When they were home, the pair headed for the Big Apple or the warmth of the Beck’s family table. “I wonder,” he said, “how you would like to be made love to—boldly or timorously or sentimentally. Some of the delicate colour which the afternoon walk had brought into her cheeks had already returned. "Why do you ask?" rejoined the other haughtily. She opened it and imbibed. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. The only thing that was louder to her was the beating of his heart.
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