They sat down in a covered pavilion that housed a grimy picnic table and a dingy fire pit. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. ‘What is this fate?’ ‘Un mariage of no distinction. And the infernal thought of that kiss returned—the softness of her lips and the cool smoothness of her cheeks. Plainly.
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