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He has no imagination, no real generosity. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. We aren’t worth it. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. Best assured of that. This—’ waving an imperious hand in a sweeping arc about the library ‘—is my house. The houses loomed progressively larger as one strode up the block, growing from ranch to two-story, from squat 1950's modern to stately 1890's palace. ’ Lucilla frowned. She barely heard a word that Martin or Brown said, until Martin’s voice chimed.
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