" He started to pick up a sheet of manuscript, but she pushed him from the table toward the doorway; and he staggered out of the bungalow, suddenly stretched his arms, and broke into a trot. “We are, or rather we were, so much alike then that the portrait of either of us would have done for the other. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months.
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