Annabel thought, and thought again. She killed every month, twelve a year, and was for all intents and purposes a serial killer of middle aged men. Soot was everywhere, for the lamp would not stay trimmed in the gale. Suppose he stopped all her allowance, made it imperative that she should either stay ineffectually resentful at home or earn a living for herself at once. “John,” she said, “I am afraid that I am going to make you unhappy. You make yourself charming for help. “I am so sorry to have startled you,” she said, “but I was startled myself. He came in apologetically; all the old “Well, and how ARE we?” note gone; and once he asked Ann Veronica, almost furtively, “How’s Alice getting on, Vee?” Finally, on the Day, he appeared like his old professional self transfigured, in the most beautiful light gray trousers Ann Veronica had ever seen and a new shiny silk hat with a most becoming roll.
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