Her brown curls were pulled tight in a severe chignon. 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. This is part of a dream— some evil fancy. Is all your house on the same scale of magnificence as this, Annabel?” she asked, looking round. I learned the trick of the place from one Paul Groves, who used to live here, and who contrived the machine. For a time Ann Veronica’s attention was diverted by her aunt’s interest in the salted almonds.
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