It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate. Annabel half filled her glass with wine, and taking a little folded packet from her plate, shook the contents into it. Her aunt, a faded, anæmic-looking lady of somewhat too obtrusive gentility, was still sitting with her hand pressed to her heart. And you talk like that! What the devil have you been up to, to land in this bog?" It was a cast at random. Michelle ate fast, and Lucy followed her lead, shoveling mashed potatoes and salmon down her gullet in a passionless frenzy.
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