“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. “Nice sleeve,” she said, and came to his hand and kissed it. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. Then she would be dead, and that was no use. “Think of the mockery!” she said. It is I who am persecuted by the man who calls himself your husband.
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