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’ ‘They? How many are there?’ ‘Oh, peste. Certainly your major—’ ‘Ah, now that’s just it, missie. 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. ” “YOU know,” said Ann Veronica. Women are made like the potter’s vessels —either for worship or contumely, and are withal fragile vessels.
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