She never questioned the motives of the characters; she had neither the ability nor the conceit for that; but she could and often did correct his lapses in colour. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. This is retribution. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. " "You shall—you shall," answered Jack.
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