“My dear Annabel,” she said, “this is delightful, but I thought that it was forbidden. A child—as innocent as a child! Nothing about life; bemused by the fairy stories you writers call novels! I don't know what you have done; I don't care. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. She put down the sketch-books and apparatus she had brought with her, pulled out her stool, and sat down.
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