“I think we’ve exhausted this discussion,” she said. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. “Who are you—Annabel Pellissier or her ghost?” Anna laughed. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. Old saltwater was right.
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