“You were really at Moulton House,” she exclaimed penitently. “For no other reason than you talk too much. Annabel! Annabel!” His voice became a shriek. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. You have friends, acquaintances, social standing, brothers and sisters, every advantage! Instead of which, you want to go to some mixed classes or other and cut up rabbits and dance about at nights in wild costumes with casual art student friends and God knows who. The walls are too high, and the windows too stoutly barricaded in this quarter, to admit such a supposition. See what you have made of me.
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