That handsome, finely drawn face belonged to a soul with clean ideals. They had been informally introduced during floor hockey, when Katy had sent a puck flying into Lucy’s face. His frame was wasted, and slightly bent; his eyes were hollow, his complexion haggard, and his beard, which had remained unshorn during his hasty journey, was perfectly white. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. And it hampers us. Half the rooms empty.
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