But she did not know what he knew, that it would always be rolling up, enlivened by suggestion, no matter how trifling. Somehow her walk home with him had been transmogrified into a melodramatic rejection, a slamming. She sat drawn together in her chair in the corner of the box, at a loss what to say or do—afraid, curious, perplexed. “You don’t propose, do you,” she said quietly, “that I should take this man for my husband?” “You can drive him away,” Annabel cried. He looked half at her and half at the sky.
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