She was trembling a little. “What the devil are you doing star-gazing here?” Ennison looked at him in surprise. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. “Can we watch television?” She asked. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. Painting is only one slender branch of the great tree. Her shoulders began to ache.
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