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‘It does not matter, Jacques. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. The little streaks upon the germinating area of an egg, the nervous movements of an impatient horse, the trick of a calculating boy, the senses of a fish, the fungus at the root of a garden flower, and the slime upon a sea-wet rock—ten thousand such things bear their witness and are illuminated. No— no, it must never be. " "Sir Rowland Trenchard!" echoed Jack, in amazement. One realized indeed then where the differences lay; the tender curves about Anna’s mouth transformed into hard sharp lines in Annabel’s, the eyes of one, truthful and frank, the other’s more beautiful but with less expression—windows lit with dazzling light, but through which one saw—nothing. ‘Never mind that now. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer.
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