One point was that she was to wear fancy dress in the likeness of a Corsair’s bride, and the other was that she was to spend whatever vestiges of the night remained after the dance was over in London with the Widgett girls and a select party in “quite a decent little hotel” near Fitzroy Square. “Where am I?” he muttered. Is all that folly done with—for ever?” Annabel shivered ever so slightly. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. ‘The major thinks she’s worth it,’ put in Prudence quietly.
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