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She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. “He is addressing a meeting of his constituents somewhere,” Annabel answered. Books! She knew now what had saved her—her mother's hand, reaching down from heaven, had set the giver's flaming eyes upon the covers of these books. ” Ennison thought so too half an hour later, when having cut out from one of the bridge tables he settled down for a chat with Annabel.
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