They fell into step again. Winter came at the manor. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. It was a precious thing, a beautiful cabochon—do you know what that is?” “What’s a cabochon?” “It’s a precious jewel that doesn’t have facets yet. ’ The door opened and Saling entered again. “Listen, Annabel,” he said hoarsely.
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