They struck her as cold and indifferent. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. She sat on the edge of her bed and looked about her, at her room, at the row of black-covered books and the pig’s skull. The overnight nervous strain began to tell; she became inattentive to the work before her, and it did not get on. In a moment he was beside her.
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