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Who is she, I say?” “My sister!” Annabel faltered. The solemn strokes were immediately answered by a multitude of chimes, sounding across the Thames, amongst which the deep note of Saint Paul's was plainly distinguishable. But you,” he continued, moving imperceptibility a little nearer to her, “you are mine. We'll have him yet. Beauty doesn’t mean, never has meant, anything—anything at all but you. She must have the capability to learn magic, to learn the enchantments that add to her power.
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