Ennison’s signet-ring had cut nearly to the bone. She held out her hand frankly. A person of somewhat artificial graces and mannerisms, she was for once in her life perfectly natural. "Red apples and snow!" she sent back at him, her face suddenly transfixed by some inner glory. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. But there is something in your voice that makes me distrust you. And what on earth do you want to darken your eyebrows and use so much make-up for at your age? You’re exactly twenty-three, and you’re got up as much as a woman of forty-five. But the general was turning on him, the hint of emotion wiped from his lined features.
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