The rich, heavy food sat in her stomach like so many soft pebbles. Annabel ignored both the chair and the invitation. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. She would not be driven in by this persistent, sneaking aggression. Then Courtlaw looked across at her with a white puzzled face.
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