Perhaps what urged her interest in the young man's direction was the dead whiteness of his face, the puffed eyelids and the bloodshot whites. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. You are not playing to-night, are you?” “Not to-night,” she answered. But I'll not believe it of you.
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