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" Spurlock turned his dull eyes and tried to focus hers. Don’t touch the handle, Annabel! Curse the thing, you’ve jammed it now. She went on her way now no longer dreaming and appreciative, but disturbed and unwillingly observant behind her mask of serene contentment. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. He laid down the knife, and fixed a searching and distrustful gaze upon the writer, who continued his task, unconscious of anything having happened. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her.

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