Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. But indeed that is not at all a good description of her attitude. A ragged gray moustache drooped from the corners of his mouth and a ragged wisp of whisker hung from his chin. He stalked her, he stared at her, he craved her, he sidled slinking and propitiatory and yet relentlessly toward her, until at last she awoke from the suffocating nightmare nearness of his approach, and lay awake in fear and horror listening to the unaccustomed sounds of the hotel. ‘You imbecile.
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