Their conversation degenerated again and again into a strain of self-congratulation that would have irked an eavesdropper. ” “The only Montague Hill I ever knew,” Annabel said slowly, “is dead. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers. She was retuning, fifths spilling from the sliver of light underneath the door like milk. You must come and tell me all about it, although I am not sure whether we shall forgive you for not having written to any of us. He grabbed her legs and threw the covers from the bed.
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