“And yet you still live, Butterfly. Where I am in error, you can set me right. It wasn’t pretty. She was taken dreadfully ill on the road, with spasms and short breath, and swoonings,—worse than ever she was before. He forced her arm back, away, stretching it out to keep the weapon at bay. Annabel had taken her life into her hands with gay insouciance, had made her own friends, gone her own way. But he's witty and amusing, and when reasonably drunk he can play the piano like a Paderewski. She has already forgotten it.
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