Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. And as he walked by her side they began a wrangle that was none the less pleasant to Ann Veronica because it served to banish a disagreeable preoccupation. There was no such a thing as perfection in a mixed world. The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate.
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