His eyes were red. "Again," cried Jonathan, sternly: "beware!" "What!" vociferated Trenchard. 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. She heard the rats scattering across the stone as dirt fell into the crypt. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby.
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