But there was, it insisted, no mobility in his face, no movement, nothing about him that warmed. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. “Hainault was Celeste’s friend, and Celeste was Annabel’s enemy,” Courtlaw said. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin.
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