Her hair touched water, becoming like the seaweed in its velvet slickness. What hotel should she go to? If she told a cabman to drive to an hotel, any hotel, what would he do—or say? He might drive to something dreadfully expensive, and not at all the quiet sort of thing she required. If I surprised her, if I saw her alone, I might make her understand. That last year in Paris, when Annabel and she had lived in different worlds, had often been a nightmare to her.
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