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” “My feeling in the matter,” Sir John said, “is as I have stated. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. Rows of roasted duck, brilliantly varnished; luscious vegetables, which she had been warned against; baskets of melon seed and water-chestnuts; men working in teak and blackwood; fan makers and jade cutters; eggs preserved in what appeared to her as petrified muck; bird's nests and shark fins. She had never thought of him at all in that way before. ‘She ought to be.
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