Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. But how long would she last, withering away to a desiccated pile of skin and bone? Round and round she would go. ‘It is, you understand, that Monsieur Charvill did not—how do you say in English?—having an eye to an eye—’ ‘Didn’t see eye to eye with the Vicomte Valade? That I can well believe.
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