They drove up into Paris in an open fiacre with a soft cool wind blowing in their faces, hand in hand beneath the rug. They had refused. “Annabel!” she exclaimed. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Curiosity held her by one hand, urging her to recklessness, and caution held her by the other. It was as if she had grown right past her father into something older and of infinitely wider outlook, as if he had always been unsuspectedly a flattened figure, and now she had discovered him from the other side. M. Nobody regards Constance or Vee as a delicate trifle. It was a refusal of expediency, he said, and not an absolute refusal.
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