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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. A group of ten began emerging outside the ticket area. “Why don’t they wait?” he added. She had all the fascination of being absolutely perplexing in this respect. He seemed to be hesitating between two courses of action. The houses were older, the shops gloomier, and the thoroughfare narrower, it is true; but the bustle, the crowd, the street-like air was the same. Kneebone, a woollen-draper in Wych Street, with whose pockets, it appears, Jack, when a lad, made a little too free. I wrote three letters yesterday and tore them up. I thought he was in Newgate. She was unusually soft and gentle in her manner to him.
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