“What do you think of that?” he asked. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. Like the flaws of an old marble. The knowledge breathed into her heart a satisfying warmth. He was caked with dried muck. " "The pianist?" "Yes. I should feel that I had been obliged to find some one else to fight my battles for me.
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