"Whose house do you want, master?" said the man, touching his hat. It’s just to feel—one owns one’s self. Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. Come and have lunch with me. Books! Aren't they wonderful?" The blind alley of life stretching out before her, with its secret doorways and hidden menaces; and she was unconcerned. "I hope not.
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