She felt she must get him talking upon some impersonal theme at any cost. ‘It was your son who left the place empty then?’ he asked. He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. He awoke, strangely content. This Joan would hold them for a little. Thames unfolded the drawing, smoothed out its creases, and beheld a portrait of himself. It's as strong, if not stronger, than this.
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