‘Soi-disant? Then he is not Valade?’ ‘How can I know?’ she countered crossly. This was in Tennessee. The fellow Kimble, to whom Gerald was indebted, was gaping. So proas loaded with nuts were always landing on the beach. She had been fighting down this thought for days: that Hoddy did not care, that he did not love her, that he had mistaken a vagary of the mind for a substance, and now regretted what he had done— married a girl who was not his equal in anything. “It is the same man, Annabel,” she said.
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