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He remembered little whispered speeches of hers, so like the Annabel of Paris, so unlike the woman he loved, a hundred little things should have told him long ago. ‘Gerald Alderley, I don’t know what you deserve. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. ‘I’m on your side. ” He contradicted himself by plunging into an exposition of motifs. 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. ’ ‘Yes, that is Mr Brewis Charvill, as you have found out for me.
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