On the mantelpiece in front of her was a note addressed to her in Annabel’s handwriting. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. All the money he earned—serving McClintock and the muse—could be laid away. After all, it came to him suddenly as a harsh discovery that she might be in a sense regarded as grownup. She’ll have to wait for dinner,” he said, uncomfortably. One never knew when it would be necessary to resume her disguise.
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