“The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name. She had thought to wear it now, since she must look more the demoiselle. She glanced into her companion’s face, and she saw there strange things. Smith: "ho! ho!" "How condescending!" thought Mrs. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. She knew the significance: the red corpuscle was being burnt out by the fires of alcohol.
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