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. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. “What ought you to do?” “I’ve hunted up all sorts of things. You make a game with me, imbecile. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. ‘Leave it, imbecile.
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