Her features are the same, yet the change has written its mark into her face. ” She thanked him with a look and rose to her feet. Her eyes were lit with a gleam of humour. His was the Latin turn of thinking; he had fallen in love at thirteen, and he was still capable—he prided himself—of falling in love. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house.
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