“Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. Art was everywhere, underfoot in the form of mosaics, overhead in the form of architecture. . The joke of it is that he’s married to her now, and cuts me dead. She would just have to show up and hope for the best. Her knees shook, her breath came fast, she almost felt the lurid effect of those tiny patches of rouge upon her pallor-stricken cheeks.
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