She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. As pretty as its owner. “I don’t care a rap for remembering. But what the deuce! He was human; he was a machine only when on the hunt.
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