She saw herself begin a slow, sinuous dance: and stop suddenly in the middle of a figure, conscious that the dance was not impromptu, her own, but native—the same dance she had quitted but a few minutes gone. “God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. We’ve brought a carriage to take you back to London, and I’ve settled with Trodger, who has just given me a coherent account of the affair. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you.
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