To be alone with her, in idleness, was an intolerable thought. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. The cold air gave her gooseflesh under her red brocade dress as she slipped outside. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. I bring you tidings of an old friend.
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