She had begun alone. Marina gently passed the swaddled infant to his mother, who sat down on the bed proudly to nurse the baby, extracting a fat breast from her heavy gown. The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. While I have been pestering you, have you heard it? At least, you heard the first act. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in her life.
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