Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. His age was not far from fifty. Be so good as to come this way. He looked across at Annabel, and he groaned. The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. He leaned back in a low chair, and watched her graceful movements, the play of her white hands as she bent over some wonderful machine.
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