Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. You care for me a little, I know. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. The mother was far more real to her than the father; the ghostly far more substantial than the living form. "It was that song that put it into my head to cut my name on the beam.
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