Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. This was no night for the indulgence of dreamy musing. He did not want Ruth to see his own stricken countenance; nor did he care to see hers, ravaged by tears. My name is Annabel, not Anna. John knew better. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact.
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