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the floor above, when the great old house was given a modern steel frame. |
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"That red tole and crystal chandelier was once owned by James Fenimore Cooper. I think the Indian portraits were, too," Jamison explained, giving her a mini-tour of the room. Then he added solicitously, "Are you sure you don't want me to have something brought, Mrs. Neville? You haven't eaten breakfast. Sandwiches, coffee?" |
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"Thank you, no, Mr. Jamison." |
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Anna chose a seat on a banquette beneath the Indian paintings and fell silent. Mr. Jamison did her the courtesy of matching her mood, no more small talk. A Herman Miller grandfather clock, made in the style of the early Federal period to fit into this twentieth-century replica of a room, ticked loudly. Anna sat, head back, eyes closed, thoughts churning. I'm coming back to life, she thought wonderingly. I'm not there yet, but it's close. And an odd time it is for me to find myself. She fell into a reverie and listened to the clock tick and strike for an hour and a half. |
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She was half asleep when the door to the library opened and Vincent Kellner reappeared. His face looked drawn, his eyes sunken and burning; here stood a man who had just received a shock, Anna thought. What had Morgan said to him on the telephone? |
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"All right, Jamison," Kellner said. He paused before going on, his lips set in a thin line. "Thank you. You can go back to Langley now." |
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"Yes. Yes, sir. Mrs. Neville." Jamison nodded to Anna and departed hurriedly. |
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Kellner sat down and looked bitterly for a moment at the faces in the paintings on the wall. Algonquin, Mohican, Niagara. "They lost their world to treachery and an advanced technology," he said somberly, as if to himself. "I wonder if we aren't repeating their fate." Then Kellner focused on Anna, as though abandoning some bleak inner vision. |
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