Annabel was in hiding all the time. It was as if her finite human brain could only store a limit of information, details like hair color and fingernail shape easily jettisoned to make room for the nuances of a grin or the emotion of a shoulder blade. A young man —almost a boy, slight, dark, and with his brother’s deep grey eyes—came across the room to her. Her moods were many and always striking. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. She loped forward on unnaturally long legs and arms that swung loosely. E.
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