There was a fourth story; but he never told either Ruth or McClintock about this. She was nude and horribly maimed. 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. It was fastened inside. “What about blood banks? Have you ever tried them?” “I don’t just take blood, John.
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