She entered the front hall, formerly magnificent, now faded and dusty, the old wood table waiting for guests who would never come. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. " "So I perceive," said Ruth, withdrawing her hands. It’s kind of the World War II thing. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. ” “I’m not surprised at it.
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