When my father died, and we were left alone in Jersey, I was quite a long time deciding whether I would go in for singing professionally or try painting. She meditated long and carefully upon her letter to her father before she wrote it, and gravely and deliberately again before she despatched it. Aside from some loose coin and a trunk key, there was nothing in the pockets: no mail, no letter of credit, not even a tailor's label. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. “The adventures I do not doubt, Annabel,” she said. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. She did not therefore reveal to him that he had guaged her with accuracy. Stonily he had disengaged himself. The darkness was almost palpable; and the wind which, hitherto, had been blowing in gusts, was suddenly lulled.
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