He had not taken many steps when he perceived Quilt Arnold in the upper gallery, with a lamp in his hand. The recollection of the forlorn and loveless years—stirred into consciousness by the unexpected confrontation—bent her as the high wind bends the water-reed. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. This is a joke of yours. The guineas are not for serving your mistress.
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