He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. Ennison himself, with the recollection of Annabel’s visit still fresh in his mind, was for a moment constrained and ill at ease. I can't invent; the thing won't come. Vorsack would staunchly disapprove of his attire, said nothing anyway.
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