At the cost of quite a number of torn drafts she succeeded in evolving this: “DEAR MR. "Married!—no—no," replied the woollen-draper. “What makes you ask such a question, Vee?” she said. Annabel lounged in her chair with a sort of insolent abandon in her pose, and wide-open eyes which never flinched or drooped. Mike was showing his territorial instincts, brought out by the fact that he was drunk.
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