He forgot for the moment his own self-pity, the egotism of his own passionate love. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. The doctor would never betray him. He was alert, well-groomed, and yet—perhaps in contrast with the more volatile French type—there was a suggestion of weight about him, not to say heaviness. But Jonathan was not to be deterred. He was waiting in the outer hall as she tiptoed in.
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