What do you think, Annabel?” “I don’t think they would,” she admitted. ” John’s father, Thomas, strode into the front hall at that moment in his golf clothes. You are always doing something for nothing, and that is why I love you. The London backgrounds, in Bloomsbury and Marylebone, against which these people went to and fro, took on, by reason of their gray facades, their implacably respectable windows and window-blinds, their reiterated unmeaning iron railings, a stronger and stronger suggestion of the flavor of her father at his most obdurate phase, and of all that she felt herself fighting against.
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