‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. It comes over the mountains, Anna, pink darkening into orange red, everywhere a wonderful cloud sea, scintillating with colour. You are your own Heaven and your own Hell, Lucy. If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Spurling, and her now accepted suitor, resumed their seats.
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